“Blood Meridian (or the Evening Redness in the West) by Cormac McCarthy, now goes into the list of novels I have read. Uniquely and somewhat beautifully written, oddly and somewhat clunkily punctuated, the book cannot be said to be good, or not good, for it’s not a tome of which opinion should be formed. I strongly doubt it was written for readers, for it is somewhat difficult on the mind as far as reading goes, but rather, I suspect it was written for writers, in a way of warning, for this is madness, and likely transmissible, or perhaps, it was written in the way a man would make some figurine out of glass, fragile, and beautiful, yet thoroughly deformed and devoid of any translation from the intellect, an abstract whose meaning is not seen or felt or defined by anything but the work itself. 

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