Why Cormac McCarthy Stopped Reading New Novels

Imagine Vladimir Nabokov submitting Lolita to a Master of Fine Arts degree program. First, under the tenured wisdom of his failed-novelist-professor, Nabokov’s style would be radically de-escalated and purloined of some 30,000 imperishable words, including every adverb. This, of course, is a mere paper cut compared to what would be coming down the pike for the unfortunate masterpiece and its schlepping emigre author. Next, the 10 or so randomly assembled mediocrities would zero in on Lolita’s title: it would be strongly if not threateningly suggested to steer away from the Latinx toward something more in Nabokov’s ethnic wheelhouse, perhaps Larissa, or Lilya.