Cormac McCarthy Finally Dead

Finally, after seemingly endless decades of waiting, America can celebrate the death of Cormac McCarthy, the worst novelist ever.

McCarthy was known for such repulsive hack tripe as “Blood Meridian” and “The Road.” Along with edgy and predictable shock shlock, he also wrote kiddie romance novels.

Born to an Irish Catholic family, McCarthy, like many of his ilk, joined the Jews to help them destroy everything. Reading a Cormac McCarthy novel is humiliating and brings deep shame on a person. As you read the foul and unnatural arrangement of words, you feel as though McCarthy might as well have just broken into your house at night and pissed in your face while you’re sleeping.

Everything he wrote was utter garbage. It was sold to stupid peasants because it was simplistically written and filled with titillating scenes of violence and depravity.

For example, in “The Road,” you have a post-apocalypse scene where a father and son are traveling. At one point, they are hiding in a ditch from roving rapist cannibals, and the father holds a gun in his son’s mouth, telling him to pull the trigger if anyone sees him.

The underlying message of his work is that everything is completely meaningless – except kiddie style romantic love (i.e., sexual infatuation).

Why would such work exist? We are supposed to believe this man was some kind of genius because he was depraved? Are we to believe that the great writers of history couldn’t have written such disgusting scenes, if they had lacked all morals?

I will tell you this: virtually anyone with a sick mind and fifth grade writing skills could have written this gross, saccharine, self-indulgent, and above all repetitive prose. When you look at the “edgy” syntax, you are reaching below the fifth grade level. Any moron with a thesaurus can write broken sentences without correct punctuation. Mixing transgressive imagery with an assault on the written language, and underwriting it with themes of nihilism and blasphemy, should have been viewed as an abomination, an affront to God and man. Yet this worm was given awards, and he was given a top place in the literary hierarchy by the odious Jew Harold Bloom and his cult.

McCarthy was handsome as a young man, which no doubt played a role in his success, which was largely among women. However, if you were to see his soul – as Satan is now seeing it in Hell – it would look ratlike, like the startling visage of Bloom. The people who work in this Jewish system, perpetuating the Jews’ agenda, take on the radical Jewish spirit, and it swallows their humanity.

If you are an educated man looking at his body of work, you realize that he never learned basic sentence structure. He leaned on “stylistics” in the same way we are supposed to believe abstract artists are real artists that only choose to create works that look like they were produced by children because they are so smart. It was truly an “emperor has no clothes” situation, where a dim-witted pervert is writing like a child and everyone was looking around at each other, seeing if anyone else noticed that this “celebrated” work was absurdly, uniquely primitive.

The one thing that McCarthy spawned that was potentially worthwhile was the Coen Brothers’ film adaptation of “No Country for Old Men.” This was also likely McCarthy’s best novel, though it was still garbage, featuring crime novel tropes that were largely pulled whole cloth from Elmore Leonard and then made more gross. The Coen Brothers film was so cinematically stylistic, however, that the source material was virtually irrelevant. There are thousands of crime novels – two dozen from Leonard alone – that could have served as the jumping off point for the same film.

In some ways, McCarthy was the logical end point of American literature, following William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway. These are complete hacks, one after the other. Of course, after McCarthy, there was no lower you could fall, so popular literature has largely simply ended.

In the wake of his death at home in Mexico at the age of 89, the Jewish American media is celebrating McCarthy as one of the greatest American novelists. Some of these people are calling him the single greatest of all. This should not surprise anyone.

Cormac McCarthy, maybe the greatest American novelist of my time, has passed away at 89. He was full of years and created a fine body of work, but I still mourn his passing.

— Stephen King (@StephenKing) June 13, 2023

The reality is that most of the greatest novelists were Russian. Moby Dick is the only American novel that compares with the Russian greats. There are no good modern novelists, except for Michel Houellebecq. The problem is, there is no meaning to life anymore, so there is nothing really to write about.

What I will say of the dead bastard and fiend McCarthy is this: he certainly embodied the spirit of the age.