It is the kid who is the key to the entire story. And we realize, by the end, that it is the Kid who has been leading us through all along. However, by the end of the book, we realize that all of that omniscience has just been a respite. The narration has more of a Biblical omniscient tone than a recounting of a personal journey. Soon “the kid” falls away from the narrative. The book starts by following in the footsteps of “the kid”, a 16-year-old sharpshooter who joins up with the mission. For the most part (with notable exceptions), they all blend together. The individuality of the participants is not the main focus. You are lulled into the rhythm of the journey, the jostling mules, the constant hunger and thirst … and when violence comes, it feels from out of nowhere, sudden and all-consuming, and you no longer have the reserves to deal with … but that doesn’t matter because here it comes anyway … and after the slaughter, everything slows down again, and the men move on. The rest of the book, with its startling sudden rushes of violence, and its long sections of journeying, of weather, of food and water, and horses hooves, and campfires, and mirages … works like a hypnotic drug. The last 50 pages of Blood Meridian read like a bat out of hell. My only regret is that someone wasn’t there to hold me when it was all over. I finished Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West last night.
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