Who knew that from the ashes of utter and total devastation a story of such intimate and terrifying beauty could emerge and rewire the way I think about being a father.

I am convinced, for a dad of a three year old son, reading The Road is a singularly defining moment in literature. It captured for me bleak and haunting fears a father carries with him always; are you preparing your child for a world where you can longer protect them? Can you do what is ultimately the best for them even if that very action will break your heart, maybe even your humanity? What do you do when your role as protector may not be enough to save them? What does it mean to be alive when your heart is living wholly inside another being who looks to you for everything? How do you compartmentalize bearing witness to their most terrified or existential moments?

The honest and austere way these questions were asked in sparse, yet lyrically poetic, prose left me shattered. Ruminating alongside a father who is processing his son's heartbreak, betrayal, utter fear, inexperienced incompetence, hope, and loss of hope created a space within my mind in which to see my relationship with my own son anew.

The Road is a transformative experience. McCarthy paints a horrid picture of humanity at its most desperate. He wrote desolation and loneliness with straightforward candor; fear and brutality at its most visceral. In the end, somehow, despite the horror, I was left with true appreciation for the story and the place and the man and the boy, and what it changed within me as a father.

4.75 out of 5