It was one of those moments when someone who is looking less for story and more for how a writer can force you to hold your breath and then release it slowly as you repeat those lines again thinking, there. There it is - the reason I read McCarthy.
"The boy who rode on slightly before him sat a horse not only as if he'd been born to it which he was but as if were he begot by malice or mischance into some queer land where horses never were he would have found them anyway. Would have known that there was something missing for the world to be right or he right in it and would have set forth to wander wherever it was needed for as long as it took until he came upon one and he would have known that that was what he sought and it would have been."
I am grateful for a writer. (on repeat)
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