Blood meridian, livre aux pages gorgées de poussière, je m'y enfonce, fallu reprendre déjà deux fois car je me perds : de la poussière, oui, et du sable, de l'os calciné, blanchi par le jour, carcasses d'animaux aux chairs évaporées. Blood meridian plus dense que La route ou No country for old men auquel il ressemble pourtant et chaque phrase est une traversée du désert. Chaque traversée du désert océan de sécheresse.

In two days they began to come upon bones and cast-off apparel. They saw halfburied skeletons of mules with the bones so white and polished they seemed incandescent even in that blazing heat and they saw panniers and packsaddles and the bones of men and they saw a mule entire, the dried and black춅ned carcass hard as iron. They rode on. The white noon saw them through the waste like a ghost army, so pale they were with dust, like shades of figures erased upon a board. The wolves loped paler yet and grouped and skittered and lifted their lean snouts on the air. At night the horses were fed by hand from sacks of meal and watered from buckets. There was no more sickness. The survivors lay quietly in that cratered void and watched the whitehot stars go rifling down the dark. Or slept with their alien hearts beating in the sand like pilgrims exhausted upon the face of the planet Anareta, clutched to a namelessness wheeling in the night. They moved on and the iron of the wagon-tires grew polished bright as chrome in the pumice. To the south the blue cordilleras stood footed in their paler image on the sand like reflections in a lake and there were no wolves now.

Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian.