Every so often, Cormac McCarthy writes a line that blows a hole straight through your eye sockets. Everyone who’s ever read McCarthy can attest to having experienced one of these moments, which I would describe as the closest thing literature has to letting someone wind up and punch you in the face. One of them arrived for me last summer, deep into McCarthy’s The Passenger, when I stumbled upon this one. “But salvation, like many another prize, …
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