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The Crossing (The Border Trilogy, Book 2) Paperback – March 14, 1995
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In the late 1930s, sixteen-year-old Billy Parham captures a she-wolf that has been marauding his family's ranch. But instead of killing it, he decides to take it back to the mountains of Mexico. With that crossing, he begins an arduous and often dreamlike journey into a country where men meet ghosts and violence strikes as suddenly as heat-lightning--a world where there is no order "save that which death has put there."
An essential novel by any measure, The Crossing is luminous and appalling, a book that touches, stops, and starts the heart and mind at once.
Look for Cormac McCarthy's latest novels, The Passenger and Stella Maris.
- Print length432 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf Doubleday Publishing Group
- Publication dateMarch 14, 1995
- Dimensions5.14 x 0.85 x 7.94 inches
- ISBN-100679760849
- ISBN-13978-0679760849
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Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com Review
This is a McCarthy novel, not Old Yeller, and so Billy's trek inevitably becomes more ominous than sweet. It boasts some chilling meditations on the simple ferocity McCarthy sees as necessary for all creatures who aim to continue living. But Billy is McCarthy's most loving--and therefore damageable--character, and his story has its own haunted melancholy.
Billy eventually returns to his ranch. Then, finding himself and his world changed, he returns to Mexico with his younger brother, and the book begins meandering. Though full of hypnotically barren landscapes and McCarthy's trademark western-gothic imagery (like the soldier who sucks eyes from sockets), these latter stages become tedious at times, thanks partly to the female characters, who exist solely as ghosts to haunt the men.
But that opening is glorious, and the whole book finally transcends its shortcomings to achieve a grim and poignant grandeur. --Glen Hirshberg
From Publishers Weekly
Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
Review
From the Inside Flap
In the late 1930s, sixteen-year-old Billy Parham captures a she-wolf that has been marauding his family's ranch. But instead of killing it, he decides to take it back to the mountains of Mexico. With that crossing, he begins an arduous and often dreamlike journey into a country where men meet ghosts and violence strikes as suddenly as heat-lightning--a world where there is no order "save that which death has put there."
An essential novel by any measure, The Crossing is luminous and appalling, a book that touches, stops, and starts the heart and mind at once.
From the Back Cover
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
When they came south out of Grant County Boyd was not much more than a baby and the newly formed county they'd named Hidalgo was itself little older than the child. In the country they'd quit lay the bones of a sister and the bones of his maternal grandmother. The new country was rich and wild. You could ride clear to Mexico and not strike a crossfence. He carried Boyd before him in the bow of the saddle and named to him features of the landscape and birds and animals in both spanish and english. In the new house they slept in the room off the kitchen and he would lie awake at night and listen to his brother's breathing in the dark and he would whisper half aloud to him as he slept his plans for them and the life they would have.
On a winter's night in that first year he woke to hear wolves in the low hills to the west of the house and he knew that they would be coming out onto the plain in the new snow to run the antelope in the moonlight. He pulled his breeches off the footboard of the bed and got his shirt and his blanketlined duckingcoat and got his boots from under the bed and went out to the kitchen and dressed in the dark by the faint warmth of the stove and held the boots to the windowlight to pair them left and right and pulled them on and rose and went to the kitchen door and stepped out and closed the door behind him.
When he passed the barn the horses whimpered softly to him in the cold. The snow creaked under his boots and his breath smoked in the bluish light. An hour later he was crouched in the snow in the dry creekbed where he knew the wolves had been using by their tracks in the sand of the washes, by their tracks in the snow.
They were already out on the plain and when he crossed the gravel fan where the creek ran south into the valley he could see where they'd crossed before him. He went forward on knees and elbows with his hands pulled back into his sleeves to keep them out of the snow and when he reached the last of the small dark juniper trees where the broad valley ran under the Animas Peaks he crouched quietly to steady his breath and then raised himself slowly and looked out.
They were running on the plain harrying the antelope and the antelope moved like phantoms in the snow and circled and wheeled and the dry powder blew about them in the cold moonlight and their breath smoked palely in the cold as if they burned with some inner fire and the wolves twisted and turned and leapt in a silence such that they seemed of another world entire. They moved down the valley and turned and moved far out on the plain until they were the smallest of figures in that dim whiteness and then they disappeared.
He was very cold. He waited. It was very still. He could see by his breath how the wind lay and he watched his breath appear and vanish and appear and vanish constantly before him in the cold and he waited a long time. Then he saw them coming. Loping and twisting. Dancing. Tunneling their noses in the snow. Loping and running and rising by twos in a standing dance and running on again.
There were seven of them and they passed within twenty feet of where he lay. He could see their almond eyes in the moonlight. He could hear their breath. He could feel the presence of their knowing that was electric in the air. They bunched and nuzzled and licked one another. Then they stopped. They stood with their ears cocked. Some with one forefoot raised to their chest. They were looking at him. He did not breathe. They did not breathe. They stood. Then they turned and quietly trotted on. When he got back to the house Boyd was awake but he didnt tell him where he'd been nor what he'd seen. He never told anybody.
The winter that Boyd turned fourteen the trees inhabiting the dry river bed were bare from early on and the sky was gray day after day and the trees were pale against it. A cold wind had come down from the north with the earth running under bare poles toward a reckoning whose ledgers would be drawn up and dated only long after all due claims had passed, such is this history. Among the pale cottonwoods with their limbs like bones and their trunks sloughing off the pale or green or darker bark clustered in the outer bend of the river bed below the house stood trees so massive that in the stand across the river was a sawed stump upon which in winters past herders had pitched a four by six foot canvas supply tent for the wooden floor it gave. Riding out for wood he watched his shadow and the shadow of the horse and travois cross those palings tree by tree. Boyd rode in the travois holding the axe as if he'd keep guard over the wood they'd gathered and he watched to the west with squinted eyes where the sun simmered in a dry red lake under the barren mountains and the antelope stepped and nodded among the cattle in silhouette upon the foreland plain.
They crossed through the dried leaves in the river bed and rode till they came to a tank or pothole in the river and he dismounted and watered the horse while Boyd walked the shore looking for muskrat sign. The indian Boyd passed crouching on his heels did not even raise his eyes so that when he sensed him there and turned the indian was looking at his belt and did not lift his eyes even then until he'd stopped altogether. He could have reached and touched him. The indian squatting under a thin stand of carrizo cane and not even hidden and yet Boyd had not seen him. He was holding across his knees an old singleshot 32 rimfire rifle and he had been waiting in the dusk for something to come to water for him to kill. He looked into the eyes of the boy. The boy into his. Eyes so dark they seemed all pupil. Eyes in which the sun was setting. In which the child stood beside the sun.
He had not known that you could see yourself in others' eyes nor see therein such things as suns. He stood twinned in those dark wells with hair so pale, so thin and strange, the selfsame child. As if it were some cognate child to him that had been lost who now stood windowed away in another world where the red sun sank eternally. As if it were a maze where these orphans of his heart had miswandered in their journey in life and so arrived at last beyond the wall of that antique gaze from whence there could be no way back forever.
From where he stood he could not see his brother or the horse. He could see the slow rings moving out over the water where the horse stood drinking beyond the stand of cane and he could see the slight flex of the muscle beneath the skin of the indian's lean and hairless jaw.
The indian turned and looked at the tank. The only sound was the dripping of water from the horse's raised muzzle. He looked at the boy.
You little son of a bitch, he said.
I aint done nothin.
Who's that with you?
My brother.
How old's he?
Sixteen.
The indian stood up. He stood immediately and without effort and looked across the tank where Billy stood holding the horse and then he looked at Boyd again. He wore an old tattered blanketcoat and an old greasy Stetson with the crown belled out and his boots were mended with wire.
What are you all doin out here?
Gettin wood.
You got anything to eat?
No.
Where you live at?
The boy hesitated.
I asked you where you lived at.
He gestured downriver.
How far?
I dont know.
You little son of a bitch.
He put the rifle over his shoulder and walked out down the shore of the tank and stood looking across at the horse and at Billy.
Howdy, said Billy.
The indian spat. Spooked everthing in the country, aint you? he said.
We didnt know there was anybody here.
You aint got nothin to eat?
No sir.
Where you live at?
About two miles down the river.
You got anything to eat at your house?
Yessir.
I come down there you goin to bring me somethin out?
You can come to the house. Mama'll feed you.
I dont want to come to the house. I want you to bring me somethin out.
All right.
You goin to bring me somethin out?
Yes.
All right then.
The boy stood holding the horse. The horse hadnt taken its eyes from the indian. Boyd, he said. Come on.
You got dogs down there?
Just one.
You goin to put him up?
All right. I'll put him up.
You put him up inside somewheres where he wont be barkin.
All right.
I aint comin down there to get shot.
I'll put him up.
All right then.
Boyd. Come on. Let's go.
Boyd stood on the far side of the tank looking at him.
Come on. It'll be dark here in just a little bit.
Go on and do like your brother says, said the indian.
We wasnt botherin you.
Come on, Boyd. Let's go.
He crossed the gravel bar and climbed into the travois.
Get up here, said Billy.
He climbed out of the pile of limbs they'd gathered and looked back at the indian and then reached and took the hand that Billy held down and swung up behind him onto the horse.
How will we find you? said Billy.
The indian was standing with the rifle across his shoulders, his hands hanging over it. You come out you walk towards the moon, he said.
What if it aint up yet?
The indian spat. You think I'd tell you to walk towards a moon that wasnt there? Go on now.
The boy booted the horse forward and they rode out through the trees. The travois poles dragging up small windrows of dead leaves with a dry whisper. The sun low in the west. The indian watched them go. The younger boy rode with one arm around his brother's waist, his face red in the sun, his near-white hair pink in the sun. His brother must have told him not to look back because he didnt look back. By the time they'd crossed through the dry bed of the river and ridden up onto the plain the sun was already behind the peaks of the Peloncillo Mountains to the west and the western sky was a deep red under the reefs of cloud. They set out south along the dry river breaks and when Billy looked back the indian was coming along a half mile behind them in the dusk carrying the rifle loosely in one hand.
How come you're lookin back? said Boyd.
I just am.
Are we goin to carry him some supper?
Yes. We can do that I reckon.
Everthing you can do it dont mean it's a good idea, said Boyd.
I know it.
HE WATCHED the night sky through the front room window. The earliest stars coined out of the dark coping to the south hanging in the dead wickerwork of the trees along the river. The light of the unrisen moon lying in a sulphur haze over the valley to the east. He watched while the light ran out along the edges of the desert prairie and the dome of the moon rose out of the ground white and fat and membranous. Then he climbed down from the chair where he'd been kneeling and went to get his brother.
Billy had steak and biscuits and a tin cup of beans wrapped in a cloth and hidden behind the crocks on the pantry shelf by the kitchen door. He sent Boyd first and stood listening and then followed him out. The dog whined and scratched at the smokehouse door when they passed it and he told the dog to hush and it did. They went on at a low crouch along the fence and then made their way down to the trees. When they reached the river the moon was well up and the indian was standing there with the rifle yokewise across his neck again. They could see his breath in the cold. He turned and they followed him out across the gravel wash and took the cattletrail on the far side downriver along the edge of the pasture. There was woodsmoke in the air. A quarter mile below the house they reached his campfire among the cottonwoods and he stood the rifle against the bole of one of the trees and turned and looked at them.
Bring it here, he said.
Billy crossed to the fire and took the bundle from the crook of his arm and handed it up. The indian took it and squatted before the fire with that same marionette's effortlessness and set the cloth on the ground before him and opened it and lifted out the beans and set the cup by the coals to warm and then took up one of the biscuits and steak and bit into it.
You'll black that cup, Billy said. I got to take it back to the house.
The indian chewed, his dark eyes half closed in the firelight. Aint you got no coffee at your house, he said.
It aint ground.
You cant grind some?
Not without somebody hearin it I caint.
The indian put the second half of the biscuit in his mouth and leaned slightly forward and produced a beltknife from somewhere about his person and reached and stirred the beans in the cup with it and then looked up at Billy and ran the blade along his tongue one side and then the other in a slow stropping motion and jammed the knife in the end of the log against which the fire was laid.
How long you live here, he said.
Ten years.
Ten years. Your family own this place?
No.
He reached and picked up the second biscuit and severed it with his square white teeth and sat chewing.
Where are you from? said Billy.
From all over.
Where you headed?
The indian leaned and took the knife from the log and stirred the beans again and licked the blade again and then slipped the knife through the handle and lifted the blackened cup from the fire and set it on the ground in front of him and began to eat the beans with the knife.
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (March 14, 1995)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 432 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0679760849
- ISBN-13 : 978-0679760849
- Item Weight : 11 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.14 x 0.85 x 7.94 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #29,580 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #324 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #1,074 in Westerns (Books)
- #2,745 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Cormac McCarthy was born in Rhode Island. He later went to Chicago, where he worked as an auto mechanic while writing his first novel, The Orchard Keeper. The Orchard Keeper was published by Random House in 1965; McCarthy's editor there was Albert Erskine, William Faulkner's long-time editor. Before publication, McCarthy received a travelling fellowship from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, which he used to travel to Ireland. In 1966 he also received the Rockefeller Foundation Grant, with which he continued to tour Europe, settling on the island of Ibiza. Here, McCarthy completed revisions of his next novel, Outer Dark. In 1967, McCarthy returned to the United States, moving to Tennessee. Outer Dark was published in 1968, and McCarthy received the Guggenheim Fellowship for Creative Writing in 1969. His next novel, Child of God, was published in 1973. From 1974 to 1975, McCarthy worked on the screenplay for a PBS film called The Gardener's Son, which premiered in 1977. A revised version of the screenplay was later published by Ecco Press. In the late 1970s, McCarthy moved to Texas, and in 1979 published his fourth novel, Suttree, a book that had occupied his writing life on and off for twenty years. He received a MacArthur Fellowship in 1981, and published his fifth novel, Blood Meridian, in 1985. All the Pretty Horses, the first volume of The Border Trilogy, was published in 1992. It won both the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award and was later turned into a feature film. The Stonemason, a play that McCarthy had written in the mid-1970s and subsequently revised, was published by Ecco Press in 1994. Soon thereafter, the second volume of The Border Trilogy, The Crossing, was published with the third volume, Cities of the Plain, following in 1998. McCarthy's next novel, No Country for Old Men, was published in 2005. This was followed in 2006 by a novel in dramatic form, The Sunset Limited, originally performed by Steppenwolf Theatre Company of Chicago. McCarthy's most recent novel, The Road, was published in 2006 and won the Pulitzer Prize.
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Reviewed in the United States on March 20, 2021
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The novel here is aptly named because in The Crossing we have a focus on various journeys of sorts, both literal and figurative, that are experienced namely by our protagonist, Billy Parham. Within the novel, there are a total of three literal crossings, one of which is Billy’s journey into Mexico after capturing a she-wolf that was terrorizing the father’s livestock. Along this path, Billy encounters allies, foes, dangers, and insights into the land.
One of the most notable qualities of McCarthy (alongside the lack of quotations for dialogue) is his stream of conscious dreamlike prose that seems to go in line with the mythical effect of the plot. I felt like I could literally get lost in the prose (I mean, in an effective way). And this adds to the literary experience, as in The Crossing themes such as coming of age, loss of innocence, facing the harsh realities of life. There is a constant prevailing commentary on the human existence that is focus.
This novel has less a linear styled plot but works instead more so as a series of connected episodes or parts that take us to one larger conclusion. Another notable aspect is McCarthy’s distinct ability to use the oral tradition of storytelling as part of both the literal and symbolic journey. In this way, we are given a story within a story, and I think this adds to the mythical, ponderous quality that The Crossing establishes.
This was yet another powerful reading experience from McCarthy, and I look forward to finishing with the last in the Border trilogy, Cities of the Plain.
The other two books in the Border Trilogy don't interest me -- it was the story of the wolf that attracted me to this one. The 425-page book is in four parts, and the first part (3-127) is about a young man's trapping a wolf in New Mexico and trying to take it back to the mountains of Mexico. The time is the 1930s, and all the wolves in the Southwest have been killed -- the only ones left are in Mexico. We are given no good explanations for why Billy Parham sets out on this course, other than a vague sense of his sympathy with the wolf, a female, which has cleverly eluded his attempt to trap it for a good long while before he finally succeeds.
That is only the first of several harebrained adventures young Billy has in Mexico, which continue through the second, third, and fourth parts. Some also involve his younger brother Boyd. I won't reveal any more of the plot, but it involves a lot of wandering here and there, some violence and the constant threat of violence, lots of horses, and a few dogs. My tone is light, but the book's tone is heavy and dark. Billy runs into several mysterious figures who share with him their bleak and realistic philosophy of life and its lack of meaning and how everything is shaped by death. There is an ejido -- a collective farm -- which is the closest the book comes to describing humans who are egalitarian and kind to one another.
There are frequent exchanges between characters in Spanish, so you will need a Spanish-English translator. Thanks to the previous reviewer who mentioned the existence of a list of Spanish phrases in "The Crossing" which someone was kind enough to compile and post online.
As with both of the previous McCarthy novels I read, "The Crossing" is very tactile. There is a lot of detail about how the traps work, and horses' saddles, and other details that many writers would leave out. There is also a lot of evocative description of the landscape. And there is periodically a lot of dark philosophy. There is not much in the way of interaction between men and women, though some of what there is features centrally in the plot.
After losing steam, the book does finish strong. I don't consider it a masterpiece comparable to "Blood Meridian," but it is another example of McCarthy's uniquely dark American vision.

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on March 20, 2021
The other two books in the Border Trilogy don't interest me -- it was the story of the wolf that attracted me to this one. The 425-page book is in four parts, and the first part (3-127) is about a young man's trapping a wolf in New Mexico and trying to take it back to the mountains of Mexico. The time is the 1930s, and all the wolves in the Southwest have been killed -- the only ones left are in Mexico. We are given no good explanations for why Billy Parham sets out on this course, other than a vague sense of his sympathy with the wolf, a female, which has cleverly eluded his attempt to trap it for a good long while before he finally succeeds.
That is only the first of several harebrained adventures young Billy has in Mexico, which continue through the second, third, and fourth parts. Some also involve his younger brother Boyd. I won't reveal any more of the plot, but it involves a lot of wandering here and there, some violence and the constant threat of violence, lots of horses, and a few dogs. My tone is light, but the book's tone is heavy and dark. Billy runs into several mysterious figures who share with him their bleak and realistic philosophy of life and its lack of meaning and how everything is shaped by death. There is an ejido -- a collective farm -- which is the closest the book comes to describing humans who are egalitarian and kind to one another.
There are frequent exchanges between characters in Spanish, so you will need a Spanish-English translator. Thanks to the previous reviewer who mentioned the existence of a list of Spanish phrases in "The Crossing" which someone was kind enough to compile and post online.
As with both of the previous McCarthy novels I read, "The Crossing" is very tactile. There is a lot of detail about how the traps work, and horses' saddles, and other details that many writers would leave out. There is also a lot of evocative description of the landscape. And there is periodically a lot of dark philosophy. There is not much in the way of interaction between men and women, though some of what there is features centrally in the plot.
After losing steam, the book does finish strong. I don't consider it a masterpiece comparable to "Blood Meridian," but it is another example of McCarthy's uniquely dark American vision.

Top reviews from other countries

The Crossing meanders on way too long though, with long passages of religious pontifications adding little to the story, and there is no real sense of narrative urgency to the story of Billy Parham as he lives out a precarious and brutal life on the border. The book has an old, wild west feel about it, although it is set in the 1930s-40s. At times, it is like Jude The Obscure set in the USA, such is its unremitting bleakness and strange, haunting beauty. Overall, worth the effort, but hard going at times.



Reviewed in the United Kingdom 🇬🇧 on February 18, 2021


The story follows Billy Parham, a 17 year old boy living with on a cattle ranch near the Mexican border. Set in the late thirties we journey across the southern US and into Mexico in three perilous adventures. Cormac describes an epic landscape steeped in a terrible history. He manages to capture the wild and dangerous nature of Mexico at that time whilst portraying it's people as being largely generous and kind despite their obvious hardships.
The novel deals with suffering, bereavement, the uncertain nature of life and loosing faith in God. Billy encounters people who not only tell him their often remarkable tales but offer unique philosophies. A Dark, remarkable, thought provoking read.

