For some time now the road had been deserted, white and scorching yet, though the sun was already reddening the western sky. He walked along slowly in the dust, stopping from time to time and bobbling on one foot like some squat ungainly bird while he examined the wad of tape coming through his shoesole. He turned again. Far down the blazing strip of concrete a small shapeless mass had emerged and was struggling toward him. It loomed steadily, weaving and grotesque like something seen through bad glass, gained briefly the form and solidity of pickup truck, whipped past and receded into the same liquid shape by which it came. (p. 1)
Ah, my man, McCarthy. Once again I fall totally into his story. McCarthy has a knack of drawing the setting, then coloring it in just enough to let you look into a three-dimensional world.
Our minds are directed to the road, then the sky, then back down to the the infinitesimal dust of the road, as if to say, this may be small compared to the universe of the sky and beyond, but this, this is where it’s all going to happen.