Resumen
NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER * The first of a two-volume masterpiece, The Passenger series, from t he Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Road * T he story of a salvage diver, haunted by loss, afraid of the watery deep, pursued for a conspiracy beyond his understanding, and longing for a death he cannot reconcile with God.
A NEW YORK TIMES BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR
"Blends the rowdy humor of some of McCarthy's early novels with the parched tone of his more apocalyptic later work." -- The New York Times
Stella Maris , the second volume in The Passenger series, is available now.
1980, PASS CHRISTIAN, MISSISSIPPI: It is three in the morning when Bobby Western zips the jacket of his wet suit and plunges from the Coast Guard tender into darkness. His dive light illuminates the sunken jet, nine bodies still buckled in their seats, hair floating, eyes devoid of speculation. Missing from the crash site are the pilot's flight bag, the plane's black box, and the tenth passenger. But how? A collateral witness to machinations that can only bring him harm, Western is shadowed in body and spirit--by men with badges; by the ghost of his father, inventor of the bomb that melted glass and flesh in Hiroshima; and by his sister, the love and ruin of his soul.
Traversing the American South, from the garrulous barrooms of New Orleans to an abandoned oil rig off the Florida coast, The Passenger is a breathtaking novel of morality and science, the legacy of sin, and the madness that is human consciousness.
Reseña de Publisher's Weekly
McCarthy returns 16 years after his Pulitzer-winning The Road with a rich story of an underachieving salvage diver in 1980 New Orleans, the first in a two-volume work. Bobby Western, son of a nuclear physicist who worked on the atomic bomb, is tasked with investigating a private plane crash in the Gulf. The plane's crew is dead, the black box is missing, and one passenger is unaccounted for. Soon, agents of the U.S. government begin to harass Western and his coworker, then this colleague turns up dead. This thriller narrative is intertwined with the story of Western's sister, Alicia, a mathematical genius who had schizophrenia and died by suicide. In flashbacks of Alicia's hallucinations, vaudevillian characters perform for her--most notably, a character named the Thalidomide Kid. Alicia and the Kid engage in numerous conversations about arcane philosophy, theology, and physics--staples of the philosopher-tramps, vagabonds, and sociopaths of McCarthy's canon, though their presence doesn't feel quite as thematically grounded as they do in his masterworks. Still, he dazzles with his descriptions of a beautifully broken New Orleans: "The rich moss and cellar smell of the city thick on the night air. A cold and skullcolored moon.... At times the city seemed older than Nineveh." The book's many pleasures will leave readers aching for the final installment. (Oct.)
Guardian Review
It's the depth of the darkness that spooks Bobby Western, the haunted man at the heart of Cormac McCarthy's extraordinary new novel. Western works as a salvage diver in the Mexican Gulf, tending to sunken barges and stricken oil rigs. He's kicking up clouds in the clay-coloured water and pressing further into the unknown with every weighted step. His colleagues are blase but experience has taught him to take care. He asks: "You ever bump into something down there that you didn't know what it was?" Published a full 16 years after the Pulitzer prize-winning The Road, The Passenger is like a submerged ship itself; a gorgeous ruin in the shape of a hardboiled noir thriller. McCarthy's generational saga covers everything from the atomic bomb to the Kennedy assassination to the principles of quantum mechanics. It's by turns muscular and maudlin, immersive and indulgent. Every novel, said Iris Murdoch, is the wreck of a perfect idea. This one is enormous. It's got locked doors and blind turns. It contains skeletons and buried gold. Some 40 feet below the surface, Western explores a downed charter jet. Inside the fuselage, he picks his way past the floating detritus and the glassy-eyed victims, still buckled in their seats. The plane carried eight passengers but one appears to be missing and the subsequent investigation hints at a government cover-up. Except that this may be a red herring; we're still in the book's shallows. Western's troubles, we realise, are altogether closer to home. McCarthy began work on The Passenger back in the mid-1980s, before his career-making Border trilogy; building it piecemeal and revisiting it down the years. Small wonder, then, that this family tragedy feels filleted, part of a larger whole and trailing so many loose ends that it requires a self-styled "coda" - a second novel, Stella Maris, published in November - to complete the story. So this is a book without guardrails, an invitation to get lost. We're constantly bumping into dark objects and wondering what they mean. Ostensibly the narrative sees Western pinballing around early 80s New Orleans, hobnobbing with the locals, trying to outflank his enemies. But it also casts back through the decades, mining his quasi-incestuous bond with his suicidal sister, Alicia. Along the way it introduces us to her nightmarish hallucinations: "the Thalidomide Kid and the old lady with the roadkill stole and Bathless Grogan and the dwarves and the Minstrel Show". Alicia likens these demons to a troupe of penny-dreadful entertainers. They materialise at her bedside whenever she skips her meds. On a prose level, McCarthy - now 89 - continues to fire on all cylinders. His writing is potent, intoxicating, offsetting luxuriant dialogue with spare, vivid descriptions. The bonfire leaning in the sea wind; the burning bits of brush hobbling away up the beach. As a storyteller, though, I suspect that he is deliberately winding down, wrapping up. This novel plays out as a great dying fall. Western and Alicia, we learn, are children of the bomb. Their father was a noted nuclear physicist who helped split the atom, leading to the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Western, in his youth, studied physics himself. He became familiar with protons and quarks, leptons and string theory, but gave up his calling for a life of blue-collar drifting. Quantum mechanics, he feels, can only take us so far. "I don't know if it actually explains anything," he says. "You can't illustrate the unknown." McCarthy's interest in physics has been stoked by his time as a trustee at the Santa Fe Institute, a nonprofit research centre. Since 2014 he's largely been holed up with the scholars, exploring the limits of science - and presumably of language as well - only to conclude that no system is flawless. High-concept plots take on water; machine-tooled narratives break down. And so it is with The Passenger, which sets out as an existential chase thriller in the mould of No Country for Old Men before collapsing in on itself. Western might outpace his pursuers but he can't escape his own history. So he heads into the desert, alone, to watch the oil refineries burning in the distance and observe the carpet-coloured vipers coiled in the grass at his feet. "The abyss of the past into which the world is falling," he thinks. "Everything vanishing as if it had never been." What a glorious sunset song of a novel this is. It's rich and it's strange, mercurial and melancholic. McCarthy started out as the laureate of American manifest destiny, spinning his hard-bitten accounts of rapacious white men. He ends his journey, perhaps, as the era's jaundiced undertaker. Come friendly bombs. Come rising oceans. The old world is dying and probably not before time, and The Passenger steals in to turn out all the lights.
Kirkus Review
A beguiling, surpassingly strange novel by the renowned--and decidedly idiosyncratic--author of Blood Meridian (1982) and The Road (2006). "He's in love with his sister and she's dead." He is Bobby Western, as described by college friend and counterfeiter John Sheddan. Western doesn't much like the murky depths, but he's taken a job as a salvage diver in the waters around New Orleans, where all kinds of strange things lie below the surface--including, at the beginning of McCarthy's looping saga, an airplane complete with nine bloated bodies: "The people sitting in their seats, their hair floating. Their mouths open, their eyes devoid of speculation." Ah, but there were supposed to be 10 aboard, and now mysterious agents are after Western, sure that he spirited away the 10th--or, failing that, some undisclosed treasure within the aircraft. Bobby is a mathematical genius, though less so than his sister, whom readers will learn more about in the companion novel, Stella Maris. Alicia, in the last year of her life, is in a distant asylum, while Western is evading those agents and pondering not just mathematical conundrums, but also a tortured personal history as the child of an atomic scientist who worked at Oak Ridge to build the bombs that destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It's all vintage McCarthy, if less bloody than much of his work: Having logged time among scientists as a trustee at the Santa Fe Institute, he's now more interested in darting quarks than exploding heads. Still, plenty of his trademark themes and techniques are in evidence, from conspiracy theories (Robert Kennedy had JFK killed?) and shocking behavior (incest being just one category) to flights of beautiful language, as with Bobby's closing valediction: "He knew that on the day of his death he would see her face and he could hope to carry that beauty into the darkness with him, the last pagan on earth, singing softly upon his pallet in an unknown tongue." Enigmatic, elegant, extraordinary: a welcome return after a too-long absence. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Reseña de Booklist
Bobby Western is a salvage diver afraid of the deep. Once a physics prodigy, he was smart enough to know he wasn't smart enough, unlike his father, who helped Oppenheimer develop the atomic bomb. The real genius of the family, however, was Bobby's late sister, Alicia, a schizophrenic math wizard prone to hallucinations and madly in love with her brother. While working on a job involving a small plane crash, Bobby and his partner discover one of the passengers is missing, along with the black box. Bobby is intrigued by the mystery until he becomes the target of a shadowy investigation. Plot is secondary to McCarthy's expert exploration of each character's interiority, plumbing the depths of their subconscious. Each chapter begins with an italicized lead-in depicting one of Alicia's hallucinations, a chilling and masterly conceit. McCarthy also considers such topics as postwar physics, race cars, underwater salvage, and the JFK assassination that subtly deepen the enigmatic narrative. His prose frequently approaches the Shakespearean, ranging from droll humor to the rapid-fire spouting of quotable fecundity. Dialogues click into place like a finely tuned engine. McCarthy has somehow added a new register to his inimitable voice. Long ensconced in the literary firmament, McCarthy further bolsters his claim for the Mount Rushmore of the literary arts.HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Excitement is running high for McCarthy's first novel since The Road (2006), and readers will also be on alert for a second, linked novel, Stella Maris, due in December.
Library Journal Review
In 1980, Bobby Western, a salvage diver, travels to Christian Pass, MS, to investigate an underwater plane crash. He soon discovers that the black box, the flight pilot's bag, and an unidentified passenger are missing. Bobby does not know what happened but nonetheless becomes the target of a federal investigation. Already haunted by his father, a physicist responsible for creating the nuclear bomb, and by the death of his sister Alicia, with whom he was in love, Bobby embarks on a quest across the United States to save his body and soul. McCarthy's (The Road) much-anticipated novel is a new American epic. His elegant prose piercingly reveals the characters' pain as they wrestle with questions of morality, madness, sin, and science. The audio is narrated in alternating sections by MacLeod Andrews, who gives voice to Bobby, and Julia Whelan, who reveals Alicia's point of view. Their luminous performances lay bare the agony and hope that each character holds within, while also helping listeners to distinguish between shifting timelines. McCarthy fans may recognize the author's recurring themes, as well as astute observations about modern life. VERDICT This latest from literary giant McCarthy lives up to the hype and is a must-add to any collection.--Elyssa Everling
Extractos
I This then would be Chicago in the winter of the last year of her life. In a week's time she would return to Stella Maris and from there wander away into the bleak Wisconsin woods. The Thalidomide Kid found her in a roominghouse on Clark Street. Near North Side. He knocked at the door. Unusual for him. Of course she knew who it was. She'd been expecting him. And anyway it wasnt really a knock. Just a sort of slapping sound. He paced up and back at the foot of her bed. He stopped to speak and thought better of it and paced again, kneading his hands before him like the villain in a silent film. Except of course they werent really hands. Just flippers. Sort of like a seal has. In the left of which he now cradled his chin as he paused and stood to study her. Back by popular demand, he said. In the flesh. It took you long enough to get here. Yeah. The lights were against us all the way. How did you know which room it was? Easy. Room 4-C. I foresaw it. What are you using for money? I've still got money. The Kid looked around. I like what you've done with the place. Maybe we can tour the garden after tea. What are your plans? I think you know what my plans are. Yeah. Things dont look too promising, do they? Nothing's forever. You leaving a note? I'm writing my brother a letter. A wintry summary I'll wager. The Kid was at the window looking out at the raw cold. The snowy park and the frozen lake beyond. Well, he said. Life. What can you say? It's not for everybody. Jesus, the winters are confining. Is that it? Is what it. Is that all you have to say? I'm thinking. He was pacing again. Then he stopped. What if we packed up and just skedaddled? It wouldnt make any difference. What if we stayed? What, another eight years of you and your pennydreadful friends? Nine, Mathgirl. Nine then. Why not? No thank you. He paced. Slowly rubbing his small scarred head. He looked like he'd been brought into the world with icetongs. He stopped at the window again. You'll miss us, he said. We've come a long way together. Sure, she said. It's been just wonderful. Look. This is all beside the point. Nobody's going to miss anybody. We didnt even have to come, you know. I dont know what you had to do. I'm not conversant with your duties. I never was. And now I dont care. Yeah. You always did think the worst. And was seldom disappointed. Not every ectromelic hallucination who shows up in your boudoir on your birthday is out to get you. We tried to spread a little sunshine in a troubled world. What's wrong with that? It's not my birthday. And I think we know what it is you've been spreading. Anyway, you're not going to get in my good graces so just forget it. You dont have any good graces. You're fresh out. All the better. The Kid was looking around the room. Jesus, he said. This place really sucks. Did you see what just crossed the floor? What, are we completely out of Zyklon B? You were never exactly Mama's little housekeeper but I think you've outdone yourself here. Time was you wouldnt be caught dead in a dump like this. Are you seeing to your person? That's none of your business. One more in a long history of unkempt premises. Yeah, well. You dont know what's in the offing, do you? If you'll pardon the pun. Ever thought about taking the veil? Okay. Just thought I'd ask. Why dont we just make what amends we can and let the rest go. Dont make it worse than it is. Yeah yeah sure sure. You knew this was coming. You like to pretend that I have secrets from you. You do. Have secrets. Christ it's cold in here. You could hang meat in this fucking place. You called me a spectral operator. I what? Called me a spectral operator. I never called you any such thing. It's a mathematical term. Yeah. Say you. You can look it up. You always say that. You never do that. Yeah, well. It's water under the bridge. Is that what it is? What, you're worried about a low grade on your job report? Call it what you like, Princess. We did the best we could. The malady lingers on. That's all right. It wont linger much longer. Yeah, I keep forgetting. Off to the bourne from whence no traveler whatever the fuck. You keep forgetting? Figure of speech. I dont forget much. Of course you dont seem to have all that much in the way of recollection concerning the state we found you in when we first showed up. I dont have to recollect it. I'm still in it. Yeah, right. Correct me if I'm wrong but I think I remember a young girl on tiptoes peering through a high aperture infrequently reported upon in the archives. What did she see? A figure at the gate? But that aint the question, is it? The question is did it see her? A small bore of light. Who would notice? But the hounds of hell can pass through the weem of a ring. Am I right or what? I was fine till you showed up. Jesus you're a piece of work. Did you know that? Still, I've got to hand it to you. As the trick said to the blind hooker. Hell's own, drooling and leering, and she's trying to look over their shoulder. What's out there? Dunno. Some atavism out of a dead ancestor's psychosis come in out of the rain. Over there smoking in the corner. Well what the hell. Let me get the lights. No good. Shut off the projector. Who the fuck ordered this anyway? Roll up the screen and the fucking things are on the wall. The other thing you called me was a pathogen. You are a pathogen. See? Are they coming in or not? Is who coming in? Cut it out. I know they're out there. The horts, that would be. That would be. All in good time. I can see their feet under the door. I can see the shadows of their feet. Feet and the shadows of feet. Just like in the real world. What are they waiting for? Who knows? Maybe they dont feel welcome. That never stopped them before. The Kid arched one mothgnawn eyebrow. Yeah? he said. Yeah, she said. Pulling the blanket about her shoulders. No one invited you. You just showed up. Okay, said the Kid. Someone in the hallway, right? Well let's take a look. He skated to the door in a long glissade and stopped and pushed back his sleeve and gripped the knob with his flipper. Ready? he called. He hauled the door open. The hallway was empty. He looked back over his shoulder at her. Looks like they flew the coop. Unless--how do I put this--it was your imagination? I know they were there. I can smell them. I can smell Miss Vivian's perfume. And I can certainly smell Grogan. Yeah? Could just be somebody cooking cabbages down the hall. Anything else? Any sulphur? Brimstone? He shut the door. Immediately the crowd outside was back. Shuffling and coughing. He rubbed his flippers together. As if to warm them. All right. Where was I? Maybe we should bring you up to date on some of the projects. You might stabilize a bit if you saw some of the progress we've made. Stabilize? We ran the stuff we got from you and so far everything looks good. What stuff you got from me? You didnt get any stuff from me. Yeah, right. We're still getting one hundred leptons to the drachma which is okay in the sense that it's not really wrong but we hope that most of this classical stuff will come out in the wash and we can get down to the renormal. You're always going to see different shit once you get everything under the light. You just differentiate, that's all. No shadows at this scale of course. You got these black interstices you're looking at. We know now that the continua dont actually continue. That there aint no linear, Laura. However you cook it down it's going to finally come to periodicity. Of course the light wont subtend at this level. Wont reach from shore to shore, in a manner of speaking. So what is it that's in the in-between that you'd like to mess with but cant see because of the aforementioned difficulties? Dunno. What's that you say? Not much help? How come this and how come that? I dont know. How come sheep dont shrink in the rain? We're working without a net here. Where there's no space you cant extrapolate. Where would you go? You send stuff out but you dont know where it's been when you get it back. All right. No need to get your knickers in a twist. You just need to knuckle down and do some by god calculating. That's where you come in. You got stuff here that is maybe just virtual and maybe not but still the rules have got to be in it or you tell me where the fuck are the rules located? Which of course is what we're after, Alice. The blessed be to Jesus rules. You put everything in a jar and then you name the jar and go from there à la the Gödel and Church crowd and in the meantime real stuff which is probably some substrate of the substrate is hauling ass off down the road at deformable speeds with the provision that what has no mass has no volume variant or otherwise and therefore no shape and what cant flatten cant inflate and vice versa in the best commutative tradition and at this point--to borrow a term--we're stuck. Right? You dont know what you're talking about. It's all gibberish. Yeah? Well just remember whose hand is on the nandgate Ducky. Because it aint the cradlerocker and it aint the dude in the runic tunic. If you get my drift. Hold it. I got a call. He rummaged in his pockets and produced an enormous phone and clapped it to his small and gnarly ear. Make it quick, Dick. We're in conference. Yeah. A semihostile. Right. Base Two. We're on fucking oxygen up here. No. No. Tough titty. Two wrongs dont make a riot. They're a pack of dimpled fuckwits and you can tell them I said so. Call me back. He rang off and pushed the antenna down with the heel of his flipper and shoved the phone back into his clothes and looked at her. There's always somebody that doesnt get the word. Who doesnt get. Right. Back to the charts. I know what you're thinking. But sometimes you just got to go for the equivalence. Run a montecarlo on the motherfucker and be done with it. For better or worse. We aint got till Christmas. It is Christmas. Almost. Yeah, well. Whatever. Where was I? Does it make any difference? Your number one lab device is going to be the servomechanism. Master and slave. Hook up a pantograph. Put the stylus in the dilemma and rotate. Count to four. Sign to sign. Repeat until the lemniscate appears. The Kid did a little buck and wing and another long slide across the linoleum and stopped and began to pace again. They're going for the big Kahuna. Boom boom time on the savannah, Hannah. Plenty of broads in the mix too in spite of all the whining from the sci-fems. I had my people check it out. You got your Madam Curry. Your Pamela Dirac. Your who? Not to mention others nameless for the nonce. Jesus will you cheer up? You need to get out more. What was it you said? After the math comes the aftermath? Tell you what. Comic interlude. Okay? Stop me if you've heard this one. Mickey Mouse is filing for divorce and the judge looks down and he says: I understand that it is your contention that your wife Minnie Mouse is mentally deranged. Is that correct? And Mickey says: No, Your Honor, that's not what I said. What I said was she's fucking nuts. The Kid stomped around the room holding himself at the waist and laughing his yukking laugh. You always get everything wrong. What are you laughing at? Whooh, he gasped. What? You always get everything wrong. It's Goofy. It's not nuts. What's the difference? She was fucking Goofy. You dont even get it. Yeah, well. We got you. Anyway the point is that you need to snap out of it. What do you think? At the last minute little Bobby Shafto is going to wake from the dead and come and rescue you? Silver buckles on his shoes or whatever the fuck? He's out of the loop, Louise. Since he duffeled his head in his racing machine. She looked away. The Kid shaded his eyes with one flipper. Well, he said. That got her attention. You dont know what you're talking about. Yeah? How long's he been snoozing now? A couple of months? He's still alive. He's still alive. Oh, well shit. If he's still alive what the hell. Why dont you come off it? We both know why you're not sticking around vis-à-vis the fallen one. Dont we? What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? I'm going to bed. It's because we dont know what's going to wake up. If it wakes up. We both know what the chances are of his coming out of this with his mentis intactus and gutsy girl that you are I dont see you being quite so deeply enamored of whatever vestige might still be lurking there behind the clouded eye and the drooling lip. Well what the hell. You never know what's in the cards, do you? You'd probably have wound up back in Chitlinland. Just the two of you. Dining on fatback and harmony grits or whatever the fuck it is that they eat down there in the land of the mammyjammer. Not exactly hobnobbing around Europe with the motorcar set but at least it's quiet. That's not going to happen. I know it's not going to happen. Good. So where do we go from here? I'll send you a postcard. You never did before. This will be different. I'll bet. Are you going to call your grandmother? And tell her what? I dont know. Something. Jesus, Jasmine. There's lots left to do you know. Maybe. But not by me. What about the nightgate and the lair of the unspeakables? Not scared of that? I'll take my chances. I'm guessing that when I trip the breaker the board goes to black. We really put ourselves out for you you know. I'm sorry. What if I was to tell you stuff I'm not supposed to tell you? Not interested. Stuff you really would like to know. You dont know anything. You just make things up. Yeah. But some of it's pretty cool. Some of it. How about this: What's black and white and red all over? I cant begin to think. Trotsky in a tuxedo. Excerpted from The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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