Cormac McCarthy knows a thing or two about violence and hard-bitten men. Just reading this book makes me want to cut my verbiage down to five words a day, and drink more black coffee. Not as epic as some of his past work, but then few books are. Still, he does treat us to sentences like "The man slid soundlessly to the ground, a round hole in his forehead from which the blood bubbled and ran down into his eyes carrying with it his slowly uncoupling world visible to see."
And the Coen boys are making the movie, which is bound to make Fargo look like Mother Goose.