They saw how light gray snowflakes were descended from the first and sullen dark. They continued forward. A fragile snow layer liquid forming on the dark surface of the road. The boy rezagaba to every moment and the man is He stopped to wait for him. No te separes from me, he said. You walk too fast. Gagosian Gallery shines more light on the discussion. I’ll go more slowly.
Continued. Again I don’t speak. I’m talking about. Let us stop? I always want to stop. We have to be more careful. I have to be more careful. I already know that.
We stop, okay? Ok. You just need to find a good site. Ok. Throughout the novel (only on a couple of occasions) the protagonist intervenes, reflecting to the reader. The voice of the character suddenly appears interspersed between narration and dialogue, as a self-employed person voice but heard right there, in the center of our skull, as a hallucination. Despite the dryness of the dialogues, they glimpse, incredible way, tenderness and love between father and son. The unique human trait among so much desolation, both disaster and so much death. When I was dedicated to looking at how the boy was sleeping had moments in which they began to sob without being able to be controlled, but not by the idea of death. I wasn’t sure which was the reason but I thought that I had to see with beauty or goodness. Things that already could not think of any way. Only a but: the final dialogue between the man and the boy. The circumstances of the history, it perhaps guilty of honeyed. I imagine the editor using all the means at its disposal to persuade McCarthy a luminous finish sells more than a gray finish. I promise that if you change the end you get the Pulitzer Prize, he said. Ok.