[-empyre-] bare life a la the usamerican mythos

["Jim Andrews" <jim@vispo.com>]

from cormac mccarthy's novel 'blood meridian'. a western. set in texas,
bush's home state. nineteenth century. in the below excerpt, the kid's an
outlaw (nacherly). the old man's a hermit the kid has stumbled upon in the
wilderness while escaping the law. this is the best dialog i've heard in a
western. my dad used to watch western movies, so i've heard some of that
sort of dialogue. bare life a la the usamerican mythos.

he stirred about in the corner and came up with an old dark brass kettle,
lifted the cover and poked inside with one finger. the remains of one of the
lank prairie hares interred in cold grease and furred with a light blue
mold. he clamped the lid back on the kettle and set it in the flames. aint
much but we'll go shares, he said.

i thank ye.

lost ye way in the dark, asked the old man. he stirred the fire, standing
slender tusks of bone up out of the ashes.

the kid didn't answer.

the old man swung his head back and forth. the way of the transgressor is
hard. god made this world, but he didnt make it to suit everbody, did he?

i dont believe he much had me in mind.

aye, said the old man. but where does a man come by his notions. what
world's he seen that he liked better?

i can think of better places and better ways.

can ye make it be?

no.

no. it's a mystery. a man's at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught
he has to know it with. he can know his heart, but he dont want to. rightly
so. best not to look in there. it aint the heart of a creature that is bound
in the way that god has set for it. you can find meanness in the least of
creatures, but when god made man the devil was at his elbow. a creature that
can do anything. make a machine. and a machine to make the machine. and evil
that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. you believe that?

i dont know.

believe that.

when the old man's mess was warmed he doled it out and they ate in silence.
thunder was moving north and before long it was booming overhead and
starting bits of rust in a thin trickle down the stovepipe. they hunkered
over their plates and wiped the grease up with their fingers and drank from
the gourd.