A harrowing post-apocalyptic novel that will go down in history as Cormac McCarthy's masterpiece.
A father and his son walk through a charred America alone. Only the ash on the wind moves in the ravaged landscape. It's cold enough to crack stones, and the snow is gray when it falls. The sky is o... vercast. Their destination is the coast, but they have no idea what, if anything, they will find there. They have nothing but a pistol to defend themselves against the lawless bands that prowl the highway, their clothes, a cart of scavenged food, and each other.
The Road is a profoundly moving journey story. It boldly imagines a future in which there is no hope, but in which love sustains the father and his son, “each the other’s world entire.” It's an unflinching meditation on the worst and best that humans are capable of: ultimate destructiveness, desperate tenacity, and the tenderness that keeps two people alive in the face of total devastation.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
How would you know if you were the last man on Earth? He said. I don't guess you would know it. You'd just be it. Nobody would know it. It wouldn't make any difference. When you die it's the same as if everybody else died too.