The Road, Final Set of Prompts

Interpret/respond to one of the passages below. Don't just restate the passage with different words. Please try to discuss it in a way that sheds new light on it for the rest of us.

1. You're not the one who has to worry about everything.
The boy said something but he couldn't understand him. What? he said.
He looked up, his wet and grimy face. Yes I am, he said. I am the one. (259)

2. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt. (261)

3. He lay watching the boy at the fire. He wanted to be able to see. Look around you, he said. There is no prophet in the earth's long chronicle who's not honored here today. Whatever form you spoke of you were right. (277)

4. The dripping was in the cave. The light was a candle which the boy bore in a ringstick of beaten copper. The wax spattered on the stones. Tracks of unknown creatures in the mortified loess. In that cold corridor they had reached the point of no return which was measured from the first solely by the light they carried with them. (280)

5. Do you remember that little boy, Papa?
Yes. I remember him.
Do you think that he's all right that little boy?
Oh yes. I think he's all right.
Do you think he was lost?
No. I dont think he was lost.
I'm scared that he was lost.
I think he's all right.
But who will find him if he's lost? Who will find the little boy?
Goodness will find the little boy. It always has. It will again. (281)

6. She would talk to him sometimes about God. He tried to talk to God but the best thing was to talk to his father and he did talk to him and didn't forget. The woman said that was all right. She said that the breath of God was his breath yet though it pass from man to man through all of time. (286)

7. Once there were brook trouts in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. (287)