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The Road


The Road Cover

ISBN13: 9780307265432
ISBN10: 0307265439
Condition: Standard
Dustjacket: Standard
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From Blindness

The amber light came on. Two of the cars ahead accelerated

before the red light appeared. At the pedestrian

crossing the sign of a green man lit up. The people who were

waiting began to cross the road, stepping on the white stripes

painted on the black surface of the asphalt, there is nothing

less like a zebra, however, that is what it is called. The motorists

kept an impatient foot on the clutch, leaving their cars at

the ready, advancing, retreating like nervous horses that can

sense the whiplash about to be inflicted. The pedestrians have

just finished crossing but the sign allowing the cars to go will

be delayed for some seconds, some people maintain that this

delay, while apparently so insignificant, has only to be multiplied

by the thousands of traffic lights that exist in the city and

by the successive changes of their three colours to produce one

of the most serious causes of traffic jams or bottlenecks, to use

the more current term.

     The green light came on at last, the cars moved offbriskly,

but then it became clear that not all of them were equally quick

offthe mark. The car at the head of the middle lane has stopped,

there must be some mechanical fault, a loose accelerator pedal, a

gear lever that has stuck, problem with the suspension, jammed

brakes, breakdown in the electric circuit, unless he has simply

run out of gas, it would not be the first time such a thing has

happened. The next group of pedestrians to gather at the crossing

see the driver of the stationary car wave his arms behind the

windshield, while the cars behind him frantically sound their

horns. Some drivers have already got out of their cars, prepared

to push the stranded vehicle to a spot where it will not hold up

the traffic, they beat furiously on the closed windows, the man

inside turns his head in their direction, first to one side then the

other, he is clearly shouting something, to judge by the movements

of his mouth he appears to be repeating some words, not

one word but three, as turns out to be the case when someone

finally manages to open the door, I am blind.

     Who would have believed it. Seen merely at a glance, the

mans eyes seem healthy, the iris looks bright, luminous, the

sclera white, as compact as porcelain. The eyes wide open,

the wrinkled skin of the face, his eyebrows suddenly screwed

up, all this, as anyone can see, signifies that he is distraught

with anguish. With a rapid movement, what was in sight has

disappeared behind the mans clenched fists, as if he were still

trying to retain inside his mind the final image captured, a

round red light at the traffic lights. I am blind, I am blind, he

repeated in despair as they helped him to get out of the car, and

the tears welling up made those eyes which he claimed were

dead, shine even more. These things happen, it will pass youll

see, sometimes its nerves, said a woman. The lights had already

changed again, some inquisitive passersby had gathered around

the group, and the drivers further back who did not know what

was going on, protested at what they thought was some common

accident, a smashed headlight, a dented fender, nothing

to justify this upheaval, Call the police, they shouted and get

that old wreck out of the way. The blind man pleaded, Please,

will someone take me home. The woman who had suggested a

case of nerves was of the opinion that an ambulance should be

summoned to transport the poor man to the hospital, but the

blind man refused to hear of it, quite unnecessary, all he wanted

was that someone might accompany him to the entrance of the

building where he lived. Its close by and you could do me no

greater favour. And what about the car, asked someone. Another

voice replied, The key is in the ignition, drive the car onto the

pavement. No need, intervened a third voice, Ill take charge of

the car and accompany this man home. There were murmurs

of approval. The blind man felt himself being taken by the arm,

Come, come with me, the same voice was saying to him. They

eased him into the front passenger seat, and secured the safety

belt. I cant see, I cant see, he murmured, still weeping. Tell

me where you live, the man asked him. Through the car windows

voracious faces spied, avid for some news. The blind man

raised his hands to his eyes and gestured, Nothing, its as if I

were caught in a mist or had fallen into a milky sea. But blindness

isnt like that, said the other fellow, they say that blindness

is black, Well I see everything white, That little woman

was probably right, it could be a matter of nerves, nerves are

the very devil, No need to talk to me about it, its a disaster,

yes a disaster, Tell me where you live please, and at the same

time the engine started up. Faltering, as if his lack of sight had

weakened his memory, the blind man gave his address, then he

said, I have no words to thank you, and the other replied, Now

then, dont give it another thought, today its your turn, tomorrow

it will be mine, we never know what might lie in store for

us, Youre right, who would have thought, when I left the house

this morning, that something as dreadful as this was about to

happen. He was puzzled that they should still be at a standstill,

Why arent we moving, he asked, The light is on red, replied

the other. From now on he would no longer know when the

light was red.

     As the blind man had said, his home was nearby. But the

pavements were crammed with vehicles, they could not find a

space to park and were obliged to look for a spot in one of the

side streets. There, because of the narrowness of the pavement,

the door on the passengers side would have been little more

than a hands-breadth from the wall, so in order to avoid the

discomfort of dragging himself from one seat to the other with

the brake and steering wheel in the way, the blind man had to

get out before the car was parked. Abandoned in the middle of

the road, feeling the ground shifting under his feet, he tried to

suppress the sense of panic that welled up inside him. He waved

his hands in front of his face, nervously, as if he were swimming

in what he had described as a milky sea, but his mouth

was already opening to let out a cry for help when at the last

minute he felt the others hand gently touch him on the arm,

Calm down, Ive got you. They proceeded very slowly, afraid

of falling, the blind man dragged his feet, but this caused him

to stumble on the uneven pavement, Be patient, were almost

there, the other murmured, and a little further ahead, he asked,

Is there anyone at home to look after you, and the blind man

replied, I dont know, my wife wont be back from work yet, today

it so happened that I left earlier only to have this hit me.

Youll see, it isnt anything serious, Ive never heard of anyone

suddenly going blind, And to think I used to boast that I didnt

even need glasses, Well it just goes to show. They had arrived at

the entrance to the building, two women from the neighbourhood

looked on inquisitively at the sight of their neighbour being

led by the arm but neither of them thought of asking, Have

you got something in your eye, it never occurred to them nor

would he have been able to reply, Yes, a milky sea. Once inside

the building, the blind man said, Many thanks, Im sorry for all

the trouble Ive caused you, I can manage on my own now, No

need to apologise, Ill come up with you, I wouldnt be easy in

my mind if I were to leave you here. They got into the narrow

elevator with some difficulty, What floor do you live on, On

the third, you cannot imagine how grateful I am, Dont thank

me, today its you, Yes, youre right, tomorrow it might be you.

The elevator came to a halt, they stepped out onto the landing,

Would you like me to help you open the door, Thanks, thats

something I think I can do for myself. He took from his pocket

a small bunch of keys, felt them one by one along the serrated

edge, and said, It must be this one, and feeling for the keyhole

with the fingertips of his left hand, he tried to open the door.

It isnt this one, Let me have a look, Ill help you. The door

opened at the third attempt. Then the blind man called inside,

Are you there, no one replied, and he remarked, Just as I

was saying, she still hasnt come back. Stretching out his hands,

he groped his way along the corridor, then he came back cautiously,

turning his head in the direction where he calculated

the other fellow would be, How can I thank you, he said, It was

the least I could do, said the good Samaritan, no need to thank

me, and added, Do you want me to help you to get settled and

keep you company until your wife arrives. This zeal suddenly

struck the blind man as being suspect, obviously he would not

invite a complete stranger to come in who, after all, might well

be plotting at that very moment how to overcome, tie up and

gag the poor defenceless blind man, and then lay hands on anything

of value. Theres no need, please dont bother, he said,

Im fine, and as he slowly began closing the door, he repeated,

Theres no need, theres no need.

    Hearing the sound of the elevator descending he gave a sigh

of relief. With a mechanical gesture, forgetting the state in

which he found himself, he drew back the lid of the peephole

and looked outside. It was as if there were a white wall on the

other side. He could feel the contact of the metallic frame on

his eyebrow, his eyelashes brushed against the tiny lens, but he

could not see out, an impenetrable whiteness covered everything.

He knew he was in his own home, he recognised the

smell, the atmosphere, the silence, he could make out the items

of furniture and objects simply by touching them, lightly running

his fingers over them, but at the same time it was as if all

of this were already dissolving into a kind of strange dimension,

without direction or reference points, with neither north

nor south, below nor above. Like most people, he had often

played as a child at pretending to be blind, and, after keeping

his eyes closed for five minutes, he had reached the conclusion

that blindness, undoubtedly a terrible affliction, might still be

relatively bearable if the unfortunate victim had retained suffi

cient memory, not just of the colours, but also of forms and

planes, surfaces and shapes, assuming of course, that this one

was not born blind. He had even reached the point of thinking

that the darkness in which the blind live was nothing other

than the simple absence of light, that what we call blindness

was something that simply covered the appearance of beings

and things, leaving them intact behind their black veil. Now,

on the contrary, here he was, plunged into a whiteness so luminous,

so total, that it swallowed up rather than absorbed, not

just the colours, but the very things and beings, thus making

them twice as invisible…

From Seeing

Terrible voting weather, remarked the presiding offi

cer of polling station fourteen as he snapped shut his

soaked umbrella and took offthe raincoat that had proved of

little use to him during the breathless forty-meter dash from

the place where he had parked his car to the door through

which, heart pounding, he had just appeared. I hope Im not

the last, he said to the secretary, who was standing slightly away

from the door, safe from the sheets of rain which, caught by

the wind, were drenching the floor. Your deputy hasnt arrived

yet, but weve still got plenty of time, said the secretary soothingly,

With rain like this, itll be a feat in itself if we all manage

to get here, said the presiding officer as they went into the

room where the voting would take place. He greeted, first, the

poll clerks who would act as scrutineers and then the party representatives

and their deputies. He was careful to address exactly

the same words to all of them, not allowing his face or

tone of voice to betray any political and ideological leanings of

his own. A presiding officer, even of an ordinary polling station

like this, should, in all circumstances, be guided by the strictest

sense of independence, he should, in short, always observe


     As well as the general dampness, which made an already oppressive

atmosphere still muggier, for the room had only two

narrow windows that looked out onto a courtyard which was

gloomy even on sunny days, there was a sense of unease which,

to use the vernacular expression, you could have cut with a

knife. They should have postponed the elections, said the representative

of the party in the middle, or the p.i.t.m., I mean,

its been raining nonstop since yesterday, there are landslips

and floods everywhere, the abstention rate this time around

will go sky-high. The representative from the party on the

right, or the p.o.t.r., nodded in agreement, but felt that his contribution

to the conversation should be couched in the form of

a cautious comment, Obviously, I wouldnt want to underestimate

the risk of that, but I do feel that our fellow citizens high

sense of civic duty, which they have demonstrated before on so

many occasions, is deserving of our every confidence, they are

aware, indeed, acutely so, of the vital importance of these municipal

elections for the future of the capital. Having each said

their piece, the representative of the p.i.t.m. and the representative

of the p.o.t.r. turned, with a half- sceptical, half-ironic air,

to the representative of the party on the left, the p.o.t.l., curious

to know what opinion he would come up with. At that

precise moment, however, the presiding officers deputy burst

into the room, dripping water everywhere, and, as one might

expect, now that the cast of polling station officers was complete,

the welcome he received was more than just cordial, it

was positively enthusiastic. We therefore never heard the viewpoint

of the representative of the p.o.t.l., although, on the basis

of a few known antecedents, one can assume that he would,

without fail, have taken a line of bright historical optimism,

something like, The people who vote for my party are not the

sort to let themselves be put offby a minor obstacle like this,

theyre not the kind to stay at home just because of a few mis-

erable drops of rain falling from the skies. It was not, however,

a matter of a few miserable drops of rain, there were bucketfuls,

jugfuls, whole niles, iguaçús and yangtses of the stuff, but

faith, may it be eternally blessed, as well as removing mountains

from the path of those who benefit from its influence,

is capable of plunging into the most torrential of waters and

emerging from them bone-dry.

     With the table now complete, with each officer in his or

her allotted place, the presiding officer signed the official edict

and asked the secretary to affix it, as required by law, outside

the building, but the secretary, demonstrating a degree of basic

common sense, pointed out that the piece of paper would

not last even one minute on the wall outside, in two ticks the

ink would have run and in three the wind would have carried it

off. Put it inside, then, out of the rain, the law doesnt say what

to do in these circumstances, the main thing is that the edict

should be pinned up where it can be seen. He asked his colleagues

if they were in agreement, and they all said they were,

with the proviso on the part of the representative of the p.o.t.r.

that this decision should be recorded in the minutes in case

they were ever challenged on the matter. When the secretary

returned from his damp mission, the presiding officer asked

him what it was like out there, and he replied with a wry shrug,

Just the same, rain, rain, rain, Any voters out there, Not a sign.

The presiding officer stood up and invited the poll clerks and

the three party representatives to follow him into the voting

chamber, which was found to be free of anything that might

sully the purity of the political choices to be made there during

the day. This formality completed, they returned to their

places to examine the electoral roll, which they found to be

equally free of irregularities, lacunae or anything else of a suspicious

nature. The solemn moment had arrived when the presiding

officer uncovers and displays the ballot box to the voters

so that they can certify that it is empty, and tomorrow, if necessary,

bear witness to the fact that no criminal act has introduced

into it, at dead of night, the false votes that would corrupt

the free and sovereign political will of the people, and so

that there would be no electoral shenanigans, as theyre so picturesquely

known, and which, let us not forget, can be committed

before, during or after the act, depending on the efficiency

of the perpetrators and their accomplices and the opportunities

available to them. The ballot box was empty, pure, immaculate,

but there was not a single voter in the room to whom it

could be shown. Perhaps one of them is lost out there, battling

with the torrents, enduring the whipping winds, clutching to

his bosom the document that proves he is a fully enfranchised

citizen, but, judging by the look of the sky right now, hell be

a long time coming, if, that is, he doesnt end up simply going

home and leaving the fate of the city to those with a black car

to drop them offat the door and pick them up again once the

person in the back seat has fulfilled his or her civic duty.

    After the various materials have been inspected, the law of

this country states that the presiding officer should immediately

cast his vote, as should the poll clerks, the party representatives

and their respective deputies, as long, of course, as

they are registered at that particular polling station, as was

the case here. Even by stretching things out, four minutes was

more than enough time for the ballot box to receive its first

eleven votes. And then, there was nothing else for it, the waiting

began. Barely half an hour had passed when the presiding

officer, who was getting anxious, suggested that one of the poll

clerks should go and see if anyone was coming, voters might

have turned up to find the door blown shut by the wind and

gone offin a huff, grumbling that the government might at

least have had the decency to inform people that the elections

had been postponed, that, after all, was what the radio and tele-

vision were for, to broadcast such information. The secretary

said, But everyone knows that when a door blows shut it makes

the devil of a noise, and we havent heard a thing in here. The

poll clerk hesitated, will I, wont I, but the presiding officer insisted.

Go on, please, and be careful, dont get wet. The door

was open, the wedge securely in place. The clerk stuck his head

out, a moment was all it took to glance from one side to the

other and then draw back, dripping, as if he had put his head

under a shower. He wanted to proceed like a good poll clerk,

to please the presiding officer, and, since it was the first time he

had been called upon to perform this function, he also wanted

to be appreciated for the speed and efficiency with which he

had carried out his duties, who knows, with time and experience,

he might one day be the person presiding over a polling

station, higher flights of ambition than this have traversed

the sky of providence and no one has so much as batted an eye.

When he went back into the room, the presiding officer, halfrueful,

half-amused, exclaimed, There was no need to get yourself

soaked, man, Oh, it doesnt matter, sir, said the clerk, drying

his cheek on the sleeve of his jacket, Did you spot anyone,

    As far as I could see, no one, its like a desert of water out there.

The presiding officer got up, took a few uncertain steps around

the table, went into the voting chamber, looked inside and came

back. The representative of the p.i.t.m. spoke up to remind the

others of his prediction that the abstention rate would go skyhigh,

the representative of the p.o.t.r. once more played the role

of pacifier, the voters had all day to vote, they were probably

just waiting for the rain to let up. This time the representative

of the p.o.t.l. chose to remain silent, thinking what a pathetic

figure he would be cutting now if he had actually said what he

was going to say when the presiding officers deputy had come

into the room, It would take more than a few miserable drops

of rain to put offmy partys voters. The secretary, on whom all

eyes were expectantly turned, opted for a practical suggestion,

You know, it might not be a bad idea to phone the ministry and

ask how the elections are going elsewhere in the city and in the

rest of the country too, that way we would find out if this civic

power cut was a general thing or if were the only ones whom

the voters have declined to illumine with their votes. The representative

of the p.o.t.r. sprang indignantly to his feet, I demand

that it be set down in the minutes that, as representative

of the p.o.t.r., I strongly object to the disrespectful manner and

the unacceptably mocking tone in which the secretary has just

referred to the voters, who are the supreme defenders of democracy,

and without whom tyranny, any of the many tyrannies

that exist in the world, would long ago have overwhelmed the

nation that bore us. The secretary shrugged and asked, Shall I

make a note of the representative of the p.o.t.r.s comments, sir,

No, I dont think that will be necessary, its just that were all a

bit tense and perplexed and puzzled, and, as we all know, in that

state of mind, its very easy to say things we dont really believe,

and Im sure the secretary didnt mean to offend anyone, why,

he himself is a voter conscious of his responsibilities, the proof

being that he, as did all of us, braved the elements to answer

the call of duty, nevertheless, my feelings of gratitude, however

sincere, do not prevent me asking the secretary to keep rigorously

to the task assigned to him and to abstain from any comments

that might shock the personal or political sensibilities of

the other people here. The representative of the p.o.t.r. made a

brusque gesture which the presiding officer chose to interpret

as one of agreement, and the argument went no further, thanks,

in large measure, to the representative of the p.i.t.m., who took

up the secretarys proposal, Its true, he said, were like shipwreck

victims in the middle of the ocean, with no sails and no

compass, no mast and no oars, and with no diesel in the tank either,

Yes, youre quite right, said the presiding officer, Ill phone

the ministry now. There was a telephone on another table and

he walked over to it, carrying the instruction leaflet he had been

given days before and on which were printed, amongst other

useful things, the telephone numbers of the ministry of the


What Our Readers Are Saying

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Average customer rating based on 13 comments:

jrrkiddo, August 7, 2007 (view all comments by jrrkiddo)
I had this book sitting untouched for several weeks , once I opened the book a whole new scary world opened up to me. My thoughts are still running wild after having finished the book. My heart still aches. No other book has left such an impact in my soul as this one. This book is very thought provoking, and dismal but leaves the reader with a glimpse of hope.
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greentree32, July 14, 2007 (view all comments by greentree32)
I tried reading "Blood Meridian" but it was too violent. I did enjoy "All the Pretty Horses" and "The Crossing," but none of these comes close to the impact of "The Road," McCarthy's latest. The tension is relentless. It feels like a major wake-up call to Civilization.
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TNutZz, May 30, 2007 (view all comments by TNutZz)
In response to a recent reviewer below who questioned the credibility of the story due to the lack of animals; there was actually a moment in the story where the boy and the man heard a dog barking...and another stanza of very eloquent McCarthyesque prose that discusses the possibility of life remaining deep within the ash-covered ocean.

Also, its important to keep in mind that this story is of the last few weeks of the boy and mans time together. The devestation of the war would have been roughly ten years earlier. As you should recall, the wife/mother was pregnant when they saw the bomb blasts.

After ten years of nuclear winter; barren irradiated ground, and dwindling supplies, it would be certain that there would be almost no mammals and few humans. The surviving people would eat the animals before eating eachother; and the roving bands of cannibals were seen in the book.

I for one, found the book to be a phenominal juxtaposition between utter devestation and the transcendent beauty of innocence and hope. Like the man knew, the boy was his life, his heart, his soul and symbolic of the hope for the survival of mankind.
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Product Details

McCarthy, Cormac
Alfred A. Knopf
Costa, Margaret Jull
Saramago, Jose
Yancey, Rick
Pontiero, Giovanni
Saramago, Jos
Fathers and sons
Voyages and travels
General Fiction
Literature-A to Z
Action & Adventure
fiction;post-apocalyptic;dystopia;survival;apocalypse;science fiction;novel;pulitzer prize;american;apocalyptic;literature;fathers and sons;pulitzer;family;post-apocalypse;father and son;cannibalism;21st century;future;death;american literature;dystopian;
Edition Number:
Edition Description:
Trade paper
The 5th Wave
Series Volume:
Publication Date:
September 26, 2006
Grade Level:
from 7
8.25 x 5.5 in
Age Level:
from 12

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Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z

The Road Used Hardcover
0 stars - 0 reviews
$4.50 In Stock
Product details 672 pages Alfred A. Knopf - English 9780307265432 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Being one of the few who didn't care for No Country for Old Men, I couldn't wait to read The Road. It is a spare, fierce novel, more a return to the writing in Outer Dark. It drew me in immediately; I didn't want to put it down, and kept reading until I finished it. It's an unsettling post-apocalyptic tale of a father and son making their way in an uncertain time without much use for conversation, just action and reaction. I didn't want a bleak, inhumane end for these two fragile souls, and McCarthy did leave a thread of hope. The Road is definitely the best book I have read in the last year or two.

"Staff Pick" by ,

Strike-me-dead beautiful and bleak — this is the book I put into every customer's hands. Absolutely the best thing out of 2006, and perhaps many years preceding, The Road reminds me of McCarthy's early novels, only matured to perfection.

"Staff Pick" by ,

The Road is Cormac McCarthy's darkest, most poetic book in years. In a post-apocalyptic, razed landscape (which, though archetypal, feels frighteningly plausible), McCarthy poses questions of survival, good and evil, and what makes us human.

"Review A Day" by , "It's an adventure, believe it or not — the sort of book that, if only for the relentless clarity of the writing, the lucid descriptions of the grasses, the mud, the thorns, and the very arc of the road that cuts through all that, presents a clear and episodic progress from one small terror to the next. Forget comfort and possession. Postapocalypse or not, it's classic McCarthy....You should read this book because it is exactly what a book about our future ought to be: the knife wound of our inconvenient truths, laid bare in a world that will just plain scare the piss out of you on a windy night." (read the entire Esquire review)
"Review A Day" by , "The love between the father and the son is one of the most profound relationships McCarthy has ever written, and the strength of it helps raise the novel — despite considerable gore — above nihilistic horror....Fans of McCarthy's brutal world view may not approve, but other readers will welcome the unexpectedly hopeful ending." (read the entire CSM review)
"Review" by , "Even within the author's extraordinary body of work, this stands as a radical achievement, a novel that demands to be read and reread....A novel of horrific beauty, where death is the only truth."
"Review" by , "The Road offers nothing in the way of escape or comfort. But its fearless wisdom is more indelible than reassurance could ever be."
"Review" by , "One of McCarthy's best novels, probably his most moving and perhaps his most personal."
"Review" by , "I'm always thrilled when a fine writer of first-class fiction takes up the genre of science fiction and matches its possibilities with his or her own powers....[A] dark book that glows with the intensity of his huge gift for language."
"Review" by , "[B]eyond the inherent technical difficulties of concocting the unthinkable, McCarthy has rendered a greater and more subtle story that makes The Road riveting."
"Review" by , "[O]nly now, with his devastating 10th novel, has [McCarthy] found the landscape perfectly matched to his cosmically bleak vision....[E]xtraordinarily lovely and sad...[a] masterpiece... (Grade: A)"
"Review" by , "The setup may be simple, but the writing throughout is magnificent....McCarthy may have created a world where things are reduced to their essence, but he continually surprises by finding a way to strip them further."
"Review" by , "The wildly admired writer Cormac McCarthy presents his own post-apocalyptic vision in The Road. The result is his most compelling, moving and accessible novel since All the Pretty Horses."
"Review" by , "[F]or a parable to succeed, it needs to have some clear point or message. The Road has neither, other than to say that after an earth-destroying event, things will go hard for the survivors."
"Synopsis" by , National Bestseller

Pulitzer Prize Winner

National Book Critic's Circle Award Finalist

A New York Times Notable Book

One of the Best Books of the Year:
The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, The Denver Post, The Kansas City Star, Los Angeles Times, New York, People, Rocky Mountain News, Time, The Village Voice, The Washington Post

A man and his young son traverse a blasted American landscape, covered with "the ashes of the late world." The man can still remember the time before. The boy knows only this time. There is nothing for them but survival — they are "each other's world entire" — and the precious last vestiges of their own humanity. At once brutal and tender, despairing and rashly hopeful, spare of language and profoundly moving, The Road is a fierce and haunting meditation on the tenuous divide between civilization and savagery, and the essential, sometimes terrifying power of filial love. It is a masterpiece.

"Synopsis" by ,
"Remarkable, not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances."—Entertainment Weekly (Grade A)

The Passage meets Ender's Game in an epic new series from award-winning author Rick Yancey.

After the 1st wave, only darkness remains. After the 2nd, only the lucky escape. And after the 3rd, only the unlucky survive. After the 4th wave, only one rule applies: trust no one.

Now, it's the dawn of the 5th wave, and on a lonely stretch of highway, Cassie runs from Them. The beings who only look human, who roam the countryside killing anyone they see. Who have scattered Earth's last survivors. To stay alone is to stay alive, Cassie believes, until she meets Evan Walker. Beguiling and mysterious, Evan Walker may be Cassie's only hope for rescuing her brother--or even saving herself. But Cassie must choose: between trust and despair, between defiance and surrender, between life and death. To give up or to get up.

"Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn't turn the pages fast enough."—Justin Cronin, The New York Times Book Review

"A modern sci-fi masterpiece . . . should do for aliens what Twilight did for vampires."—

"Synopsis" by ,
"Remarkable, not-to-be-missed-under-any-circumstances."—Entertainment Weekly (Grade A)

The Passage meets Ender's Game in an epic new series from award-winning author Rick Yancey.

After the 1st wave, only darkness remains. After the 2nd, only the lucky escape. And after the 3rd, only the unlucky survive. After the 4th wave, only one rule applies: trust no one.

Now, it's the dawn of the 5th wave, and on a lonely stretch of highway, Cassie runs from Them. The beings who only look human, who roam the countryside killing anyone they see. Who have scattered Earth's last survivors. To stay alone is to stay alive, Cassie believes, until she meets Evan Walker. Beguiling and mysterious, Evan Walker may be Cassie's only hope for rescuing her brother--or even saving herself. But Cassie must choose: between trust and despair, between defiance and surrender, between life and death. To give up or to get up.

"Wildly entertaining . . . I couldn't turn the pages fast enough."—Justin Cronin, The New York Times Book Review

"A modern sci-fi masterpiece . . . should do for aliens what Twilight did for vampires."—

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