This weekend, I saw Cormac McCarthy’s play The Sunset Limited: a wonderful, if a bit schematic, reflection on faith and reason and overly-educated intellectuals. The premise was contrived: a white, aging ex-professor has attempted to throw himself in front of a train, only to be rescued by a black, born-again ex-con. The entire 1h 45m is spent around a kitchen table, the ex-con trying to convince the ex-prof to accept the Word. All the while, the bitter, used-up nihilist of a professor is not having any of it.
Painfully overbearing at times, yet with the wonderful zingers and allusions to Kafka and Schopenhauer that one would expect from a serious novelist.
And, as an added benefit, Mr. McCarthy himself was sitting just in front of me (the play took place in a very small side theater). Behind me was the director of the play, along with a bunch of the Steppenwolf ensemble members. Chicago rules sometimes..
I’d like to write a letter (a real one, on paper) to Cormac, just to ask him if that’s the best and only answer he can find to being as literate as I’d like to become someday – whether reading too much, whether being too cultivated only leads to disillusionment, general unhappiness and suicide.
Update: I just found a little retrospective on the play by one of my new favorite actors, Austin Pendleton.