No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

The time is our own, when rustlers have given way to drug-runners and small towns have become free-fire zones. One day, a good old boy named Llewellyn Moss finds a pickup truck surrounded by a bodyguard of dead men. A load of heroin and two million dollars in cash are still in the back. When Moss takes the money, he sets off a chain reaction of catastrophic violence that not even the law—in the person of aging, disillusioned Sheriff Bell—can contain.

I started reading this book about 9:30 this morning. Intended to take an hour, ended up finally finishing it around 12:05.

I feel like crying. I just want to sit for the rest of the day and not do or say or think anything, but just cry a little. It's a feeling like you've been punched in the chest for no good reason except that you believed the world was an okay place but it's really not, and I could say a bunch of self-indulgent pretentious things here, but what good would it do?

I mean, I like reading things that make me feel, but I think I got a bit more than I bargained for here. And it's not like a fullness of feeling, it's like a sheer empty wasteland of feeling. It takes your feels out in the desert and guns them down in cold blood then comes back and kicks you in the teeth for having feels in the first place, how dare you.

I need to go hug some puppies or something. On a side note, the movie was an incredibly good adaptation.

Not sure what else to say. Just kinda feel like I've lost something I didn't even know I had.

If I don't come back, tell mama i love her.
Your mama is dead, llewelyn.
Well, then I'll tell her myself.

beautiful

basically seems like the Coens just used this book as the screenplay for the movie; beat for beat almost identical to the movie until the end