I hate Cormac McCarthy.

I hate him with the lipid envy that runs as green as the backside of a blarney stone. I despise him because he is everything I will never be; he is a marvel, a treasure, perhaps the most captivating storyteller of our time.

The Orchard Keeper is McCarthy’s foray into modern literature. While it lacks the shocking depravity and violence of his later works, McCarthy certainly introduces us to his grasp of hardscrabble backwoods survival. We are welcomed to a chilly walk through the Tennessee mountainside and the people who find it tenable. We are left plastered with wet hillbilly leaves soaked by a country brook. McCarthy’s effort to surround you in the landscape warms you with moonshine as you’re blistered by your tattered brogans.

The Orchard Keeper is focused on three main characters; an old man, a young boy, and a bootlegger. They are intertwined by their survivability as well as the discovery of a rotting corpse. The book is a series of odd and seemingly unrelated mountain tales that serve as cobblestones on a trip toward fate. Irony runs rampant as a killer becomes comforter to the victim’s child.

There is one other character that serves an important role. A panther. Captured as a cub, the cat serves as a pet, but escapes to ravage the stockyards and pig stys of rural Tennessee. His behavior is no different than others in this book; he leans on his wits and his grit to stay alive.

As in other McCarthy novels, I find myself drawn to his mastery of the written word, real and invented. Few others have the courage to actually create their own words. McCarthy channeled his inner Snoop Dogg when he tapped “mizzle” to describe a light rain. His grasp of the English language came from over “yander,” a place attainable by invitation only.

While not my favorite McCarthy missive, The Orchard Keeper is a satisfying read. Then again, everything this author puts forward is nothing short of magic.

I love everything he creates.

Which is why I hate him.