Book 32: The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy
Cormac McCarthy's last book, The Road, was published in 2006. It was also the first McCarthy I read, in 2007, and I spent the last 15 years combing through nearly every book in his bibliography (I'm still three short with Cities of the Plain, Outer Dark, and Suttree). The Passenger (and its sequel/companion Stella Maris, out in December) has been brewing basically since The Road, and rumors have been swirling about his story of atomic bombs, deep-sea salvage, and a brother-sister romance.
It's hard to describe this book without ruining the experience of reading it, as it doesn't really push itself past its synopsis, plot-wise. Bobby Western is a salvage diver in the early 80s, living a sparse life of working and having discursive discussions with the colorful characters who hang around a divers' bar. He's clearly haunted by his sister's death, as well as his father's legacy as one of the engineers of the atomic bomb.
After exploring a mysterious plane wreck in a river, Bobby comes under scrutiny by unspecified government agencies. This is where the book's sense of anticlimax/antiplot is deepest as the book turns into an inverted No Country for Old Men: as the situation gets more dire, the
why of Western's pursuit becomes murkier, and Western himself seems basically unconcerned by the tightening noose. Ultimately, the murky vagaries of the plot lead to a feeling of the past in constant pursuit; it feels more like a thematic feature than a narrative bug. McCarthy is clearly even more focused on death, legacy, and grief; and in typical fashion he concludes that we're all dust, it's all actively crumbling around us, and any motion towards self-preservation is dishonesty with yourself and nature. It's a story intensely focused on grief and grieving; the present is barely worth engaging with, don't even bother divining the future, and the past itself is too painful to fully reckon with.
This is a deeply strange book especially seeing that, for all the grief, there is a lot of humor, wordplay, and puns. McCarthy includes a "yes I'm serious, and don't call me Shirley" joke. The dialogues can be infuriating for McCarthy's lack of punctuation and no "he said/she said" dialogue attribution. Nearly every chapter begins with an italicized conversation between Western's sister and the apparitions brought on by her deteriorating mental health. They're nearly interminable, but clearly crucial to the book's texture and theme of the prison of human consciousness, and as the book ambles towards its conclusion they bleed into the rest of the story in a way that carries thematic heft. I'm half-dreading Stella Maris, a much-slimmer novel which apparently consists entirely of a dialogue between the sister and her therapist.
You're crazy for this one, Mack.