Literary criticism sometimes reminds me of oenophiles and art critics. The cognoscenti have a language all their own with all sorts of obfuscations and oh-so-obscure cutesy-pie references and if the rest of us ordinary mortals don't automatically appreciate and immediately embrace their overwhelming brilliance, well, then, we must be ignoramuses!
This was the feeling I kept getting reading "Blood Meridian". Not to beat a dead horse, but it felt like he was bent on making art out of the most brutal story he could find. He should re-read "Politics and the English Language."
I guess I have a low level of tolerance for books that seem intent on providing instant greatness. "Lonesome Dove" felt the same way - apologies to the many fans of that novel. I don't think you can successfully set out to write an epic any more than a film maker can successfully make a famous, favorite cult movie. They just happen - they're happy accidents. You try too hard and you lose it.
