The pacified pessimism of the United States in the pages of Cormac McCarthy

In the moment of general perplexity about what contemporary America is (or what it is becoming), the death of the old Cormac McCarthy puts us in front of the liquidation of a prototype that is difficult to place at this point, or that, looking from here, we ended up removing. America as it was. How she endeared herself to some, scared many others and attracted so many people that she had very little to lose. A place where the idea of ​​starting or even starting over was widely feasible – it is funny that in one of his rare interviews, reaffirming his total disinterest in travel, tourism and knowledge of the world beyond, McCarthy declared that a place that intrigued him was New Zealand, minimal and lush enough to induce temptation to start all over again, as it had been for his country, at its origins. But McCarthy in his novels told of another America, grabbed in the air and photographed while things had already gone awry and against his wonderful backgrounds the human comedy of oppression was being replicated, even in the worst version, devoid of any culture, with the dominance of the muscles and a fog of confusion descending on the whole.