Författaren Cormac McCarthy är död
Blev 89 år gammal.
Blev 89 år gammal.
Blev 89 år gammal.
Blev 89 år gammal.
Can Xue, Anne Carson och Ljudmila Ulitskaja – det är de kvinnor som finns med bland vadslagningsfirmornas storfavoriter inför årets Nobelpris i litteratur. Förra året gick priset till franska Annie Ernaux – så frågan är om Akademien för första gången vågar ge priset till en kvinna två år i rad? Hittills är det endast 17 kvinnor som har fått priset. Kulturskribenten Carsten Palmer Schale förutspår varje år vilken författare som kommer att få Nobelpriset i litteratur i kulturtidningen Opulens. Han träffade rätt på Abdulrazak Gurnah år 2021 och nämnde Annie Ernaux bland tre favoriter förra året. På hans lista över de tio mest troliga författarna att få priset återfinns två kvinnor: Joyce Carol Oates och Marilynne Robinson. — Jag har alltid med Oates för att förr eller senare kommer hon få det. Marilynne Robinson, som fyller 80 år i år, är bemängd med alla möjliga priser och har både skrivit fackböcker och skönlitteratur. Jag skulle inte bli förvånad om hon fick det, säger han men tror själv mest på Mircea Cartarescu eller Jon Fosse i år. Har fallit ifrån Efter två skandalfria år är frågan också om Svenska Akademien skulle våga ge priset till en rysk författare som Ljudmila Ulitskaja. — Jag hoppas att Akademien inte fallit in i synen att all rysk kultur skulle vara sammankopplad med den ryska ledningen, för det är på ett sätt vad de vill att man ska tro. Jag tycker inte att det skulle vara problematiskt med ett pris till en rysk författare, beroende på vem det är, säger Sydsvenskans kulturchef Ida Ölmedal. Själv hoppas hon på Salman Rushdie. Han är en av de ständigt tippade författare som blir allt äldre – Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, Maryse Condé, Adonis och Joyce Carol Oates hör också till dem som kanske inte kommer att hinna få priset. I år har flera favorittippade författare också avlidit: som Dubravka Ugresic, Milan Kundera och Cormac McCarthy. Globalt litteraturpris Det är också fortfarande så att en överhängande del av författarna som har fått priset är européer eller nordamerikaner. Alltså tycker Carsten Palmer Schale att det är dags för en svart författare som bor i ett afrikanskt land – och inte en som likt Abdulrazak Gurnah har levt stora delar av sitt liv i Europa. Själv hoppas han att det är Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'os, tur. — Det här är en tävling om att vara bäst i klassen och klassen är jordklotet. Så om det kommer upp någon argentinare eller exilkines ska man inte säga "va?". Det är ett globalt pris. I år har Nobelstiftelsen också meddelat att prissumman höjs, efter att prispengarna tidigare reducerats i ett sparprogram. Nu är beloppet 11 miljoner kronor. Rättat: I en tidigare version uppgavs fel prissumma.
”Ingen kommer levande härifrån”, sjöng Jim Morrisson innan han dog vid 27 års ålder. Och kanske är det just påminnelsen om det som får oss att sörja öppet när kändisar vi aldrig träffat dör, resonerar The Economist. Men det finns fler förklaringar till fenomenet. När uppskattade artister dör blir det också ett tillfälle and samlas runt minnena av deras verk tillsammans med andra beundrare. ”Artistens avskedsgåva blir att ge oss en sorgesam högtid, som ett avbrott i vardagens slit och släp.” What we talk about when we talk about dead artists By The Economist 3 September, 2023 After Alexander Pushkin was shot in a duel in 1837, crowds of mourners formed in St Petersburg. Russia’s nervy authorities moved his funeral service and mustered 60,000 troops. When the wagon bearing the poet’s body reached Pskov province, where he was to be interred, devotees tried to unharness the horses and pull it themselves. The death of Rudolph Valentino, a silent-movie idol, in 1926 set off similarly fervid lamentation. Mounted police restrained the fans who mobbed the funeral parlour in New York where he lay on view (several reportedly killed themselves). In 1975 some of the millions of Egyptians who paid their respects to Um Kalthoum, a megastar singer, took hold of her coffin and shouldered it for hours through the streets of Cairo. Today’s celebrity obsequies tend to be less fanatical, and largely digital rather than in-person. But they are passionate all the same. In the past few months, grief has coursed around the internet for Martin Amis, Cormac McCarthy, Tina Turner and, most recently, Jimmy Buffett. If you stop to think about it, many such outpourings for writers, actors and musicians are odd, even irrational. Unlike other kinds of grief, this one does not stem from personal intimacy. If you ever interacted with a cherished author, it was probably during a book tour when, caffeinated to the eyeballs, she signed your copy of her novel and misspelled your name. Maybe you delude yourself that you once locked eyes with a frontman hero during a gig and that he smiled only for you. But you didn’t really know them, and they certainly didn’t know you. Nor would you always have liked them if you had. Their books or songs may be touching and wise, but (in the parlance of criticism) it is a biographical fallacy to assume that the work reflects an artist’s life or beliefs. Your favourites may indeed have been lovely people; or perhaps, beneath their curated images, they were spiky money-grubbers, consumed by rivalry or solipsists who drove their families nuts. Rarely do you know for sure. Though the artists are gone, meanwhile, the art you prize is not. Death does not delete it—on the contrary, curiosity and nostalgia often drive up sales. (David Bowie’s only number-one album in America was “Blackstar”, released days before he died in 2016.) The dead, it is true, write no more books and record no songs. Philip Roth will never set a novel in the era of Donald Trump; you will never hear another operatic Meat Loaf ballad. The cold reality, however, is that many artists’ best work was done long before their demise. The sorrow makes more sense when a star dies young or violently. Had she not perished at 27, like Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, who knows what music Amy Winehouse would have added to her small, exquisite oeuvre? Sinéad O’Connor, another casualty of 2023, lived a troubled life that ended too soon. Buddy Holly (killed in a plane crash), Amedeo Modigliani (dead of tubercular meningitis at 35), Wilfred Owen (slain in action a week before the armistice in 1918): such premature and cruel exits are tragic. Objectively, though, the death of a long-lived and fulfilled artist is far from the saddest item in an average day’s headlines. And whereas most mortals sink into oblivion, laureates live on in their output, which Horace, a Roman poet, called a “monument more lasting than bronze”. The standard reasons for mourning don’t apply. Why, then, are these losses felt so widely and keenly? One interpretation is that the departed celebrities are merely the messengers. The real news is death itself, which comes for everyone, immortal or impervious as some may seem. If the reaper calls for Prince, with all his talent and verve, he will certainly knock for you. As Jim Morrison sang before he, too, died at 27: “No one here gets out alive.” Part of your past—the years in which the mute musician was the soundtrack, the silenced writer your ally—can seem to fade away with them. Just as plausibly, the grief can be seen as a transmuted form of gratitude for the solidarity and joy they supplied. On your behalf, they undertook to make sense of the world and distil beauty from the muck of life. Yet as much as anything else, the passing of an artist is an occasion for communion. In an atomised age, in which the default tone is abrasive, a beloved figure’s death is a chance to share benign feelings and memories with fellow admirers. Like water-cooler moments in a cemetery, these sombre holidays from spite and strife are the artists’ parting gifts. © 2023 The Economist Newspaper Limited. All rights reserved.
▸ MARKUS LARSSON: Cormac McCarthy höll aldrig läsarna i handen
I ”Vägen” slets Cormac McCarthy mellan cynism och hopp.
I sina romaner skildrade Cormac McCarthy på ett mörkt men mästerligt sätt såväl det amerikanska samhället som den mänskliga naturens tidlöshet. På tisdagen avled den länge Nobelpristippade författaren.
Cormac McCarthy visade oss ”Amerikas våldsamma hjärta”, skriver The Guardians Martin Pengelly efter den amerikanske författarens död. McCarthy dog i går, 89 år gammal. Han var nästan 60 år när han slog igenom brett med sin sjätte bok, ”Dessa vackra hästar”. För många är filmen ”No Country for Old Men” mer känd än McCarthys litterära förlaga, men Pengelly konstaterar att få som sett filmen först blivit besvikna när de sedan läst boken. Själv håller han ”Blodets meridian” från 1985 högst. ”Våldet är avskyvärt, som våld är. Vita män sprider terror. USA:s ursprungsfolk slår tillbaka [...] Det är våldet som Amerika fötts ur och inte kommer undan.” DN Kulturs Jonas Thente skriver att McCarthy var en författare som man uppfattade som urtyp. ”De muskulösa, hårdföra och gärna tystlåtna figurerna som vådligt balanserar mellan grovhuggen machismo och den hyperkänslighet som författandet kräver.” Expressens Jens Liljestrand skriver att McCarthy var den sista länken till den stora amerikanska romanen. ”Hans romaner befinner sig i civilisationens utkanter, rör sig mot det primitiva, sadistiska men också bedövande vackra i mänskligheten som varelse.”
Författaren Cormac McCarthy, känd för vad Washington Post kallar ”lyriska och ofta brutalt våldsamma” romaner, är död. Han blev 89 år. McCarthy vann Pulitzer-priset för ”The road” och skrev den litterära förlagan till Oscarsvinnande ”No country for old men”.
Författaren Cormac McCarthy är död. Den amerikanske skribenten, som bland annat nämnts i försnacket till Nobelpriset återkommande gånger, var författaren bakom skildringar som ”No Country For Old Men” och ”Blodets meridian”. Han skrev tolv romaner, två pjäser, fem manus och tre korta historier. Trots att han aldrig fick Nobelpriset, belönades han med andra hedersomnämningar, däribland amerikanska Pulitzerpriset. Han beskrivs som tillbakadragen. Bland annat åkte han aldrig ut på turnéer, inte heller signerade han böcker eller gav föreläsningar. Till Wall Street Journal berättade han att han en gång signerat 250 böcker – men att han gett alla till sin yngste son, så att denne skulle kunna sälja dem och resa till Las Vegas. Washington Post konstaterar att McCarthy genom åren jämförts med giganter som William Faulkner och Herman Melville. McCarthy blev 89 år.
Cormac McCarthy föddes den 20 juli 1933 i Providence i den amerikanska delstaten Rhode Island, men växte främst upp i Tennessee.
Han fick sitt genombrott på 90-talet med "Gränstrilogin" och har betraktats som en av USA:s största samtida författare.
I sitt författarskap har McCarthy bland annat utmärkt sig genom explicita våldsskildringar och många av hans romaner är våldsamma berättelser som handlar om vilda västern och postapokalyptiska världar. Mest känd är han för sina moderna västernskildringar i romaner som "No country for old men" och "Blodets meridian".
Cormac McCarthy död – blev 89 år gammal Så sent som i höstas utkom McCarthy med två romaner – "The passenger" och "Stella Maris" – inom loppet av en månad. Romanerna var författarens första sedan den postapokalyptiska "Vägen" utkom 2006, som han belönades med Pulitzerpriset för.
Flera av hans romaner har också blivit framgångsrika filmer, bland annat har "Vägen" och "No country for old men" filmatiserats. I våras kom beskedet att även "Blodets meridian", en mörk och våldsam historia av många ansedd som McCarthys bästa roman, skulle få liv på filmduken.
Cormac McCarthy, som ofta har nämnts i Nobelprissammanhang, blev 89 år gammal. Enligt hans förlag dog han av naturliga orsaker i sitt hem i Santa Fe i delstaten New Mexico i USA.
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The aim of this video is to give you a good sense of which novels by Cormac McCarthy might be best for you to read next.
Once a year, I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It’s a cathartic annual ritual for me. What is it about this novel that has such an impact on my soul and those of other readers? Who is the man who wrote it, and what was he trying to do with this story of a father and son struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic landscape?For answers to these questions, I decided to talk to a foremost expert on McCarthy’s work, as well as the literature of the American West in general. His name is Steven Frye and he’s a professor of English, a novelist in his own right, and the author and editor of several books about the reclusive, philosophical author, including Understanding Cormac McCarthy. We begin our conversation with some background on McCarthy and a discussion of his distinctive style and themes, and why he avoids the limelight and prefers to hang out with scientists over fellow artists. We then dive into The Road, and Steve unpacks what inspired it, as well as the authors and books that influenced it. We then dig into the big themes of The Road, and how it can be read as a biblical allegory that wrestles with the existence of God. We delve into the tension which exists between the father and son in the book, and what it means to “carry the fire.” We end our conversation with why reading The Road makes you feel both depressed and hopeful at the same time.A spoiler alert here: If you haven’t read The Road yet, we do reveal some of the plot points in this discussion. Also, why haven’t you read The Road yet?Resources Related to the PodcastOther books by Steven Frye, including his novel Dogwood CrossingMcCarthy’s books mentioned in the show:The RoadAll the Pretty HorsesBlood MeridianThe Orchard KeeperNo Country for Old MenThe Sunset LimitedThe film adaptation of The RoadThe Santa Fe InstituteBrothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky“Cat in the Rain” — short story by Ernest Hemingway“Indian Camp” — short story by Ernest HemingwayAoM Podcast #635: The Existentialist’s Survival GuideAoM Article: Carry the FireAoM Article: Books So Good I’ve Read Them 2X (Or More!)Connect With Steven FryeSteve’s website
This exclusive interview is a presentation of The Meow Library. “. . .but in any case the selfimmolatory tendencies of cats does seem to be a known factor in the feline equation. Noted in the writings of Asclepius, among others of the ancients. Jesus, said Seals. It would seem to contradict Unamuno, though. Right, Squire? His dictum that cats reason more than they weep? Of course, their very existence according to Rilke is wholly hypothetical. Cats? Cats.” -- Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger In the low-hanging twilight, when the horizon was stained with an eerie hue of ashen gray, the splay-legged tabby known as Cormac McCarthy took his final faltering steps. His once agile frame, now burdened by the relentless passage of time, moved with a solemnity of ancient timbers. Shadows danced upon his frail silhouette, elongating the lines of age etched beneath his mange-stricken eyes, gray and pink underskin like the cracked parchments of forgotten manuscripts. Those sooted emeralds, once fierce and piercing, now glimmered with a dim light, as if struggling to maintain their brilliance against the encroaching darkness. The fire of life within them whispered its last plea, a desperate attempt to hold onto a world that had grown weary and desolate. Cormac, a creature forged in a realm of solitude and quiet contemplation, traversed the dire sands of his own existence, each step a measured cadence resonating with the weight of countless untold tales and unfulfilled desires. The very air seemed to hang heavy, laden with the mournful sighs of countless souls who had passed before him. As he made his way to a secluded alcove, sheltered from the merciless winds that whispered their cruel laments, the shrill of absence enfolded him. The rasp of flame-kissed straw and the distant echo of a howling wind played their melancholy symphony, accompanying Cormac on his final pilgrimage. In that sacred space, amidst the fading light, Cormac lay his weary body upon the cool earth. The world around him hushed, as if nature herself held her breath in reverence for this solemn departure. The final rays of the sun caressed his fur, painting him in a gentle golden hue, a testament to the untamed spirit that once roamed these lands. The silence deepened, the stillness grew, as Cormac's heart, that delicate metronome of life, stuttered and sputtered. His ragged breaths purred their final tale, dissipating into the vast expanse of eternity. And in that quietude, the soul of a nomadic philosopher, a wanderer of realms unseen, was unshackled from its earthly vessel. The world mourned its loss, though it knew not of the passing. No grand elegy would be written, no chorus of mourners would sing in lament. But in the hearts of those who had known him, who had witnessed the enigmatic dance of his existence, a void was left. A void that could only be filled by the echoes of his meows, the faint whispers of his stories, forever woven into the fabric of time. Thus, Cormac McCarthy, the feline sage who prowled the alleys of our mortal coil, departed from this realm, transcending the boundaries of flesh and bone. His tale, now complete, would forever linger in the forgotten corners of the human heart, a testament to the enduring power of a single, idiot life. Cormac McCarthy was my cat, and these are his final words.
Cormac McCarthy is a literary icon. Winner of the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award for his novel All the Pretty Horses, and the Pulitzer Prize for his apocalyptic novel The Road, Norma’s earlier novel, Blood Meridian has been labelled The Great American Novel. Many people did not know that this cultural giant is also fascinated by, and amazingly knowledgeable about science. Reading his newest books, The Passenger and Stella Maris (released this week!), however, and that becomes obvious. The protagonists are mathematical and physics prodigies, and just as one may requires a dictionary to keep up with the the remarkably diverse prose in Cormac’s writing, some people may need to consult some popular books on science to fully appreciate the scientific asides sprinkled throughout both volumes. I first met Cormac at the Santa Fe Institute back when I was considering a possible position there as its Director, some years ago. I was shocked to walk into the kitchenette there and discover him, as I had no idea that is where he spent his time. But, as we discuss in our dialogue, he moved to Santa Fe at the invitation of Nobel Laureate physicist Murray Gell Mann to join the new Institute. Cormac and I became fast friends then, and have remained friends ever since. The best hour of radio I ever did was with Cormac and Werner Herzog, on the occasion of Herzog’s film Cave of Forgotten Dreams, where both Cormac and Werner talked with amazing authority about the evolution paleontology of early modern humans. Then later, he honored me by asking if he could copyedit the paperback version of my book Quantum Man, a scientific biography of Richard Feynman. He said he wanted to make the paperback version ‘perfect’, in part by removing all exclamation marks and semicolons.. Of course I said yes, and we added his name as copyeditor on the front page! I have known that Cormac is extremely reluctant to appear in public or do interviews. He agreed to appear in our film The Unbelievers, which was a great gift, but has often demurred when I have asked him to appear in other public panels on subjects we love to talk about in private. So, when I asked him if, on the occasion of the publication of his new books, the first books in 16 years, if we could sit down and record a conversation about science for The Origins Podcast, I was shocked and thrilled when he agreed. He is 89 years old now, and I was so pleased to have the chance to record some of his thoughts on science for posterity.He invited us into his home for an afternoon conversation after a long lunch, and the conversation that ensued was much like the conversations we have had over the years. Cormac loves to discuss science, but prefers to listen to physicists talk about their work rather than initiate conversations. He is, after all, notoriously laconic. But when he does speak about science, his insights are fascinating. Using some of the ideas discussed in his new books a launching points, our discussion ranged over quantum mechanics, the role of mathematics in science, and whether there will ever be a theory of everything. There were a variety of challenges that day, including the difficulty of filming something in a sunlight room without window shades, but the end result was unique and memorable. I hope you agree. As always, an ad-free video version of this podcast is also available to paid Critical Mass subscribers. Your subscriptions support the non-profit Origins Project Foundation, which produces the podcast. The audio version is available free on the Critical Mass site and on all podcast sites, and the video version will also be available on the Origins Project Youtube channel as well. Get full access to Critical Mass at lawrencekrauss.substack.com/subscribe
Recently, two giants of modern American literature died within a single day of each other. Gilbert Cruz talks with Dwight Garner about the work of Cormac McCarthy’s work, and with Pamela Paul and Emily Eakin about the life and legacy of Robert Gottlieb.
Chris Ryan doesn’t want to hear your opinion about Cormac McCarthy’s new book. Hosts: Bill Simmons, Chris Ryan, Sean Fennessey, and Tyler Parker Associate Producer: Isaiah Blakely
Cormac McCarthy, The Writers, Derek Owusu
Cormac McCarthy is a writer in the vein of Hemingway or Faulkner, a person whose prose you can spot from a mile away. That can be a good or a bad thing, as we discuss in our show on his 1985 book Blood Meridian.Join us for a discussion of scalping, war, and the special Internet that only Cormac McCarthy knows about.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.