There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you. 
 In his Pulitzer winning novel of 2007, Cormac McCarthy follows a man and his young son as they make their way through the desolate wasteland of what used to be the United States of America. Disaster has struck Earth in the form of, presumably, a nuclear catastrophe, leaving behind a grey landscape completely overtaken by ash. The man and his boy are forced to wear masks or cover their faces with cloths to minimise the inhalation of the penetrating remains of the lost world. The two survivors perfectly complement their grim surroundings: two ragged, frail silhouettes, the picture of humanity's disintegrating remains. 
 Dark of the invisible moon. The nights now only slightly less black. By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp. 
 The story demands a merciless author and McCarthy is exactly that. In this apocalyptic scenario, death is continue reading