On That Evening Redness in the West
There’s just nothing like this book, in almost any way. Brutal, in every way. Beautiful brutality, I guess. You get the feeling that the land, the dirt, the rocks, all of it, has fangs. The people have fangs, and are stupid, and are brutal. Unrelenting, this book. Even the end, the last line, it doesn’t even relent. It circles on and on. He’s trying, I think, to talk about that brutality, to capture this vision of unrelenting violence, war, awfulness. Not an easy book to read, not for its violence, its at-times plotless-ness, its pessimism, but what a wallop this thing is.