Cormac McCarthy - The Sunset Limited

Black: I do accept it. It dont let me off the hook though.

White: You think I dont understand. But I’m not sure you’d want to listen to the things I do understand.

Black: Try me.

White: It would just upset you.

Black: I been upset before.

White: It’s worse than you think.

Black: That’s all right.

White: You dont want to hear this.

Black: Yes I do. I got no choice.

The professor leans back and studies the black.

White: Okay. Maybe you’re right. Well, here’s my news, Reverend. I yearn for the darkness. I pray for death. Real death. If I thought that in death I would meet the people I’ve known in life I dont know what I’d do. That would be the ultimate horror. The ultimate despair. If I had to meet my mother again and start all of that all over, only this time without the prospect of death to look forward to? Well. That would be the final nightmare. Kafka on wheels.

Black: Damn, Professor. You dont want to see you own mama?

White: No. I dont. I told you this would upset you. I want the dead to be dead. Forever. And I want to be one of them. Except that of course you cant be one of them. You cant be one of the dead because what has no existence can have no community. No community. My heart warms just thinking about it. Silence. Blackness. Aloneness. Peace. And all of it only a heartbeat away.

Black: Damn, Professor.

White: Let me finish. I dont regard my state of mind as some pessimistic view of the world. I regard it as the world itself. Evolution cannot avoid bringing intelligent life ultimately to an awareness of one thing above all else and that one thing is futility.

Black: Mm. If I’m understandin you right you sayin that everbody that aint just eat up with the dumb-ass ought to be suicidal.

White: Yes.

Black: You aint shittin me?

White: No. I’m not shitting you. If people saw the world for what it truly is. Saw their lives for what they truly are. Without dreams or illusions. I dont believe they could offer the first reason why they should not elect to die as soon as possible.

Black: Damn, Professor.

White: (Coldly) I dont believe in God. Can you understand that? Look around you man. Cant you see? The clamor and din of those in torment has to be the sound most pleasing to his ear. And I loathe these discussions. The argument of the village atheist whose single passion is to revile endlessly that which he denies the existence of in the first place. Your fellowship is a fellowship of pain and nothing more. And if that pain were actually collective instead of simply reiterative then the sheer weight of it would drag the world from the walls of the universe and send it crashing and burning through whatever night it might yet be capable of engendering until it was not even ash. And justice? Brotherhood? Eternal life? Good god, man. Show me a religion that prepares one for death. For nothingness. There’s a church I might enter. Yours prepares one only for more life. For dreams and illusions and lies. If you could banish the fear of death from men’s hearts they wouldnt live a day. Who would want this nightmare if not for fear of the next? The shadow of the axe hangs over every joy. Every road ends in death. Or worse. Every friendship. Every love. Torment, betrayal, loss, suffering, pain, age, indignity, and hideous lingering illness. All with a single conclusion. For you and for every one and every thing that you have chosen to care for. There’s the true brotherhood. The true fellowship. And everyone is a member for life. You tell me that my brother is my salvation? My salvation? Well then damn him. Damn him in every shape and form and guise. Do I see myself in him? Yes. I do. And what I see sickens me. Do you understand me? Can you understand me?

The black sits with his head lowered.

White: I’m sorry.

Black: That’s all right.

White: No. I’m sorry.

The black looks up at him.

Black: How long you felt like this?

White: All my life.

Black: And that’s the truth.

White: It’s worse than that.

Black: I dont see what could be worse than that.

White: Rage is really only for the good days. The truth is there’s little of that left. The truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?

Black: Damn.

White: You see what it is you’ve saved.

Black: Tried to save. Am tryin. Tryin hard.

White: Yes.

Black: Who is my brother.

White: Your brother.

Black: Yes.

White: Is that why I’m here? In your apartment?

Black: No. But it’s why I am.

White: You asked what I was a professor of. I’m a professor of darkness. The night in day’s clothing. And now I wish you all the very best but I must go.

He pushes back his chair and rises.

Black: Just stay a few more minutes.

White: No. No more time. Goodbye.

He turns toward the door and the black rises.

Black: Come on, Professor. We can talk about somethin else. I promise.

White: I dont want to talk about something else.

Black: Dont go out there. You know what’s out there.

White: Oh yes. Indeed I do. I know what is out there and I know who is out there. I rush to nuzzle his bony cheek. No doubt he’ll be surprised to find himself so cherished. And as I cling to his neck I will whisper in that dry and ancient ear: Here I am. Here I am. Now open the door.

Black: Dont do it, Professor.

White: I’m sorry. You’re a kind man, but I have to go. I’ve heard you out and you’ve heard me and there’s no more to say. Your God must have once stood in a dawn of infinite possibility and this is what he’s made of it. And now it is drawing to a close. You say that I want God’s love. I dont. Perhaps I want forgiveness, but there is no one to ask it of. And there is no going back. No setting things right. Perhaps once. Not now. Now there is only the hope of nothingness. I cling to that hope. Now open the door. Please.

Black: Dont do it.

White: Open the door.

The black undoes the chains. They rattle to the floor. He opens the door and the professor exits. The black stands in the doorway looking down the hall.

Black: Professor? I know you dont mean them words. Professor? I’m goin to be there in the mornin. I’ll be there. You hear? I’ll be there in the mornin.

He collapses to his knees in the doorway, all but weeping.

Black: I’ll be there.

He looks up.

Black: He didnt mean them words. You know he didnt. You know he didnt. I dont understand what you sent me down there for. I dont understand it. If you wanted me to help him how come you didnt give me the words? You give em to him. What about me?

He kneels weeping rocking back and forth.

Black: That’s all right. That’s all right. If you never speak again you know I’ll keep your word. You know I will. You know I’m good for it.

He lifts his head.

Black: Is that okay? Is that okay?

Cormac McCarthy is the author of eleven novels. Among his honors are the National Book Award, the Pulitzer Prize, and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

Winner of the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award

“McCarthy’s prose [is] the most laudable, his characters the most fully inhabited, his sense of place the most bloodworthy and thoroughly felt of any living writer’s.”