Poetry must be capable of answering the challenge of apocalytpic times, even if this means sounding apocaltypic.
McCarthy's prose in 'Blood Meridian' comes blazing from the Book of Revelation.
I will stop the motor of the world.
We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man's passing.
I think the environmental movement has failed in that it's used the stick too much; it's used the apocalyptic tone too much; it hasn't sold the positive aspects of being environmentally concerned and trying to pull us out.
History rewards all research. And history fails to record one single instance in which the white man - as a people - did good. They have always been devils; they always will be devils, and they are about to be destroyed. The final proof that they are devils lies in the fact that they are about to destroy themselves. Only a devil - and a stupid devil at that - would destroy himself!
The rain's been racing earthwards as if with some religious or political fanaticism. The clouds have the look of dark internal bleeding. Surely you lot look up from Cosmo while this sort of thing's going on? Surely you take a Playstation break?
There is an air of last things, a brooding sense of impending annihilation, about so much deconstructive activity, in so many of its guises; it is not merely postmodernist but preapocalyptic.
