Boy's Life
Robert McCammon delivers “a tour de force of storytelling” (BookPage) in this award-winning masterpiece, a novel of Southern boyhood, growing up in the 1960s, that reaches far beyond that evocative landscape to touch readers universally.
Boy’s Life is a richly imagined, spellbinding portrait of the magical worldview of the young—and of innocence lost.
Zephyr, Alabama, is an idyllic hometown for eleven-year-old Cory Mackenson—a place where monsters swim the river deep and friends are forever. Then, one cold spring morning, Cory and his father witness a car plunge into a lake—and a desperate rescue attempt brings his father face-to-face with a terrible, haunting vision of death. As Cory struggles to understand his father’s pain, his eyes are slowly opened to the forces of good and evil that surround him. From an ancient mystic who can hear the dead and bewitch the living, to a violent clan of moonshiners, Cory must confront the secrets that hide in the shadows of his hometown—for his father’s sanity and his own life hang in the balance…
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Community Reviews
I did not read Boy’s Life. Nor did I listen to it. I experienced it. Robert McCammon transported me into Zephyr; I lived side by side with the characters and watched Cory grow up. I sound like an old person recollecting fond memories from a distant past and it’s not entirely off base. Boy’s Life is not merely a mystery novel. It’s a journey through a quiet life that forces one to mature. The novel makes one think: What does it take to grow and how do you know when you have truly grown?
“You know, I do believe in magic.” This is how it starts. Not just the novel, but life.
“But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls.” And this is how we grow. Or do we? Does growing require one to stop believing in magic? The novel argues - probably not, but it’s tough.
The novel spans only one year, in which Cory turns twelve. However, he matures not one, but several years within that short yet taxing period. The novel isn’t depressing. If anything, it has a whimsical tone, a sense of warmth and kindness, despite some of the morbid events that unfold. The author masterfully explores the themes of experiencing loss, overcoming challenges, and preserving childhood magic as it becomes ever so slightly more elusive as we grow older.
There are many hypotheses about when one grows up. Maybe it’s when we turn 21 or 24, or some other number. Maybe it’s when we “discover” ourselves? Maybe it’s when we earn our first dollar. Maybe it’s when we first fall in love. Notice how most of these examples carry a positive undertone. But what if we grow when we first experience deep pain? Not a toothache or a broken arm. Deep pain of loss. Loss of carelessness, loss of peace, loss of hope.
Spoilers ahead. The first loss Cory experiences in the novel is his bike. The bike seems irreplaceable to him at the time and he has to come to terms with the loss. But it’s not the kind of loss that reshapes his world. What happens when the Branlin brothers attack Cory and his friends and leave Johnny wounded? “Summer had suddenly been poisoned…” We can especially hear how this affected Johnny: “they’d stolen part of Johnny Wilson’s summer away from him, and he would never again be twelve years old in June.” Johnny and the rest of the group lost the magic of summer – a time of carefree play and hopeful dreams.
Then, Nemo. He looked small, fragile, frightened. And he was. But he was also tempered like steel: “He was still crying, but there was rage in his eyes so powerful that I had to step back a pace to escape its heat.” Cory and his friends gave Nemo a baseball as a token of friendship and memory. He hurled it “almost straight up into the sky.” Nemo’s conviction that the next town will be no different shows how the constant loss of friendships and home has not only made him old beyond his years, but hardened him: “Nemo was silent, but the rage spoke.” Cory here loses a friend, not only because Nemo is moving away, but because he realizes Nemo is also losing the person he might have become, the friendships he might have valued, and the opportunities that might have allowed his natural talents to develop.
Then come the most devastating losses: Rebel, his beloved dog, and Davy Ray, one of his best friends. Cory learns to accept them because there is nothing else he can do, even though he tried. And he tried hard, especially with Rebel. “The solitary traveler has left this world. He will not pass this way again” shows how Cory grows through pain while still preserving his belief in magic. Neither magic nor faith can undo these deaths, but they can help Cory carry the losses because “… life is for the livin’.”
Is pain the only way to grow? Of course not, and the novel does not pretend that it is. What else is in the formula for growth? Maybe the willingness to face a challenge. Physical danger? Sure, Cory faces plenty of it, and those experiences contribute to his development. However, I’d like to focus on a few quieter challenges that force him to grow at least as much, if not more.
The death of Mrs. Neville gave Cory the motivation to enter the writing contest in her memory. From the incident with the Old Mosses, we know Cory is not a cowardly young man. From the camping incident, we know he can maintain his composure and think clearly even in moments of genuine danger. Who would have thought that reading his short story was going to be such a challenge? And while his fears are somewhat childish - “was my zipper up? Did I dare to look and see?” - I think we all can sympathize with his “trance of terror”. As he walked to the podium, his heart beat “like the wings of a caged bird.” Cory overcame the challenge. He was still scared and awkward, but he took his time and successfully read the story. This scene teaches us that perfection is unnecessary. There is no guarantee of success, but choosing to try instead of running from the challenge might be another important ingredient in growth. What’s more, it does not require abandoning magic. If anything, believing in it might help. Which leads me to another, stronger example.
Cory’s father, Tom, lost his peace after the incident of the drowning man. Throughout the novel it seems that the Lady might help him regain some of his peace. However, Tom’s reluctance and fear of this strange Lady with a questionable reputation as a witch prevent him from facing that challenge. He tries everything: dismissing the incident, reasoning through it, attempting to live with it. Nothing helps. It’s not until Tom realizes the Lady is not as scary as he once thought that he finally agrees to seek her help. Tom, by accepting a bit of that “magic”, eventually finds peace. Not all at once, and not without his own effort, but little by little. Even adults have room to grow, and sometimes that growth begins by letting a little magic in.
Surely, the growth formula must be a bit more complicated than just a few ingredients. And the novel explores it further. When Cory is forced to write an apology letter to his teacher for hitting her, his reaction is completely understandable and familiar to pretty much everyone – the sense of unfairness, the moral high ground we believe is ours, and the ego that has to be preserved at all costs. We all know these feelings. In addition, Cory was still grieving the death of Davy Ray and it is so easy to take his side as a reader, so easy to say: “Leave this boy alone, he’s got enough on his plate already.” But you see, does this approach actually make us grow, or does it merely let us calm down? I think it’s the latter. I’m glad that the adults were able to understand Cory’s position and acknowledge the teacher’s fault, but I’m especially glad that Cory apologized despite no longer being forced to do so. Not only did he apologize for his behavior, which was, in fact, aggressive, but he did so publicly, without humiliating either himself or the teacher. This is one of the most beautiful scenes in the novel because it shows how grown-up adults behave, how even children can be on par with adults, and how the release of pressure can lead to truly beautiful choices. I wish more of these moments happened in real life – children behaving like adults, not the other way around. Books like this give me hope.
For now, the formula of growth seems a lot grimmer than what we usually think of growing up – going through losses, facing challenges and discomforts, acting through understanding rather than force, and making difficult choices. Is growing up really this difficult? And if so, how do you preserve childhood magic? Well, maybe this is why most of us don’t. “And once you burn the magic things or cast them out in the garbage… you become a beggar for magic again.” Or maybe we’re missing a sprinkle of something that can make the process of growth a tiny bit more pleasant?
There are moments when believing in magic becomes easy, and they happen to all of us. We just need to let them in. “My heart was speaking to Chile Willow in that moment, as she… gave me a smile.” The magic hides in small things: “If you were my girlfriend I would give you a hundred lightning bugs in a green glass jar, so you could always see your way. I would give you a meadow full of wildflowers, where no two blooms would ever be alike….” What sounds like a childlike understanding of romance is actually unusually deep in the context of the novel. It’s not about how much Cory can give. It’s about him giving Chile all that he deems truly beautiful. Much too often, we value only the things that can serve us, and way too rarely do we value things given to us from a pure heart and with the best of intentions. Sincerity and innocence are magic in themselves. Is it not magical to preserve that one dime from a person you wish were in your life but realize never will be, and fall asleep with it in your hand?
Moments of clarity and hope: “We pedaled on, four buddies with the wind at our backs and all roads leading to the future.” Affection in times of urgency: “‘You crazy thing, you!’ she said, and kissed him.” And small moments of excitement: “…and she eagerly pushes that arrowhead down into the pocket of her jeans like a secret treasure.” All of these make up the magic in our grown world. The trick is to actually notice it.
We usually do not question whether somebody is an adult – everybody eventually becomes one, whether willingly or not. The question is whether one has grown. And answering that question is a lot more difficult. Is it possible that we always have room to grow, as Tom does? Is it possible to endure loss and challenge, truly grow, and still preserve wonder and appreciate simple innocence? How do we preserve magic and grow at the same time? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, and the novel does not answer them either. I think it is up to us to decide. What the novel does is force us to face these questions and try to answer them honestly for ourselves.
I was not able to determine when exactly I grew up. In fact, I honestly don’t think I have yet – growing up doesn’t seem to be a single event. I hope I’m still growing. Maybe I don’t feel it because, like many, I lost the “magic.” And now I ask myself – did I have to give up wonder to grow? I cannot answer the question today. Maybe I will one day. Or maybe I will become a “beggar for magic again.”
“You know, I do believe in magic.” This is how it starts. Not just the novel, but life.
“But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls.” And this is how we grow. Or do we? Does growing require one to stop believing in magic? The novel argues - probably not, but it’s tough.
The novel spans only one year, in which Cory turns twelve. However, he matures not one, but several years within that short yet taxing period. The novel isn’t depressing. If anything, it has a whimsical tone, a sense of warmth and kindness, despite some of the morbid events that unfold. The author masterfully explores the themes of experiencing loss, overcoming challenges, and preserving childhood magic as it becomes ever so slightly more elusive as we grow older.
There are many hypotheses about when one grows up. Maybe it’s when we turn 21 or 24, or some other number. Maybe it’s when we “discover” ourselves? Maybe it’s when we earn our first dollar. Maybe it’s when we first fall in love. Notice how most of these examples carry a positive undertone. But what if we grow when we first experience deep pain? Not a toothache or a broken arm. Deep pain of loss. Loss of carelessness, loss of peace, loss of hope.
Spoilers ahead. The first loss Cory experiences in the novel is his bike. The bike seems irreplaceable to him at the time and he has to come to terms with the loss. But it’s not the kind of loss that reshapes his world. What happens when the Branlin brothers attack Cory and his friends and leave Johnny wounded? “Summer had suddenly been poisoned…” We can especially hear how this affected Johnny: “they’d stolen part of Johnny Wilson’s summer away from him, and he would never again be twelve years old in June.” Johnny and the rest of the group lost the magic of summer – a time of carefree play and hopeful dreams.
Then, Nemo. He looked small, fragile, frightened. And he was. But he was also tempered like steel: “He was still crying, but there was rage in his eyes so powerful that I had to step back a pace to escape its heat.” Cory and his friends gave Nemo a baseball as a token of friendship and memory. He hurled it “almost straight up into the sky.” Nemo’s conviction that the next town will be no different shows how the constant loss of friendships and home has not only made him old beyond his years, but hardened him: “Nemo was silent, but the rage spoke.” Cory here loses a friend, not only because Nemo is moving away, but because he realizes Nemo is also losing the person he might have become, the friendships he might have valued, and the opportunities that might have allowed his natural talents to develop.
Then come the most devastating losses: Rebel, his beloved dog, and Davy Ray, one of his best friends. Cory learns to accept them because there is nothing else he can do, even though he tried. And he tried hard, especially with Rebel. “The solitary traveler has left this world. He will not pass this way again” shows how Cory grows through pain while still preserving his belief in magic. Neither magic nor faith can undo these deaths, but they can help Cory carry the losses because “… life is for the livin’.”
Is pain the only way to grow? Of course not, and the novel does not pretend that it is. What else is in the formula for growth? Maybe the willingness to face a challenge. Physical danger? Sure, Cory faces plenty of it, and those experiences contribute to his development. However, I’d like to focus on a few quieter challenges that force him to grow at least as much, if not more.
The death of Mrs. Neville gave Cory the motivation to enter the writing contest in her memory. From the incident with the Old Mosses, we know Cory is not a cowardly young man. From the camping incident, we know he can maintain his composure and think clearly even in moments of genuine danger. Who would have thought that reading his short story was going to be such a challenge? And while his fears are somewhat childish - “was my zipper up? Did I dare to look and see?” - I think we all can sympathize with his “trance of terror”. As he walked to the podium, his heart beat “like the wings of a caged bird.” Cory overcame the challenge. He was still scared and awkward, but he took his time and successfully read the story. This scene teaches us that perfection is unnecessary. There is no guarantee of success, but choosing to try instead of running from the challenge might be another important ingredient in growth. What’s more, it does not require abandoning magic. If anything, believing in it might help. Which leads me to another, stronger example.
Cory’s father, Tom, lost his peace after the incident of the drowning man. Throughout the novel it seems that the Lady might help him regain some of his peace. However, Tom’s reluctance and fear of this strange Lady with a questionable reputation as a witch prevent him from facing that challenge. He tries everything: dismissing the incident, reasoning through it, attempting to live with it. Nothing helps. It’s not until Tom realizes the Lady is not as scary as he once thought that he finally agrees to seek her help. Tom, by accepting a bit of that “magic”, eventually finds peace. Not all at once, and not without his own effort, but little by little. Even adults have room to grow, and sometimes that growth begins by letting a little magic in.
Surely, the growth formula must be a bit more complicated than just a few ingredients. And the novel explores it further. When Cory is forced to write an apology letter to his teacher for hitting her, his reaction is completely understandable and familiar to pretty much everyone – the sense of unfairness, the moral high ground we believe is ours, and the ego that has to be preserved at all costs. We all know these feelings. In addition, Cory was still grieving the death of Davy Ray and it is so easy to take his side as a reader, so easy to say: “Leave this boy alone, he’s got enough on his plate already.” But you see, does this approach actually make us grow, or does it merely let us calm down? I think it’s the latter. I’m glad that the adults were able to understand Cory’s position and acknowledge the teacher’s fault, but I’m especially glad that Cory apologized despite no longer being forced to do so. Not only did he apologize for his behavior, which was, in fact, aggressive, but he did so publicly, without humiliating either himself or the teacher. This is one of the most beautiful scenes in the novel because it shows how grown-up adults behave, how even children can be on par with adults, and how the release of pressure can lead to truly beautiful choices. I wish more of these moments happened in real life – children behaving like adults, not the other way around. Books like this give me hope.
For now, the formula of growth seems a lot grimmer than what we usually think of growing up – going through losses, facing challenges and discomforts, acting through understanding rather than force, and making difficult choices. Is growing up really this difficult? And if so, how do you preserve childhood magic? Well, maybe this is why most of us don’t. “And once you burn the magic things or cast them out in the garbage… you become a beggar for magic again.” Or maybe we’re missing a sprinkle of something that can make the process of growth a tiny bit more pleasant?
There are moments when believing in magic becomes easy, and they happen to all of us. We just need to let them in. “My heart was speaking to Chile Willow in that moment, as she… gave me a smile.” The magic hides in small things: “If you were my girlfriend I would give you a hundred lightning bugs in a green glass jar, so you could always see your way. I would give you a meadow full of wildflowers, where no two blooms would ever be alike….” What sounds like a childlike understanding of romance is actually unusually deep in the context of the novel. It’s not about how much Cory can give. It’s about him giving Chile all that he deems truly beautiful. Much too often, we value only the things that can serve us, and way too rarely do we value things given to us from a pure heart and with the best of intentions. Sincerity and innocence are magic in themselves. Is it not magical to preserve that one dime from a person you wish were in your life but realize never will be, and fall asleep with it in your hand?
Moments of clarity and hope: “We pedaled on, four buddies with the wind at our backs and all roads leading to the future.” Affection in times of urgency: “‘You crazy thing, you!’ she said, and kissed him.” And small moments of excitement: “…and she eagerly pushes that arrowhead down into the pocket of her jeans like a secret treasure.” All of these make up the magic in our grown world. The trick is to actually notice it.
We usually do not question whether somebody is an adult – everybody eventually becomes one, whether willingly or not. The question is whether one has grown. And answering that question is a lot more difficult. Is it possible that we always have room to grow, as Tom does? Is it possible to endure loss and challenge, truly grow, and still preserve wonder and appreciate simple innocence? How do we preserve magic and grow at the same time? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, and the novel does not answer them either. I think it is up to us to decide. What the novel does is force us to face these questions and try to answer them honestly for ourselves.
I was not able to determine when exactly I grew up. In fact, I honestly don’t think I have yet – growing up doesn’t seem to be a single event. I hope I’m still growing. Maybe I don’t feel it because, like many, I lost the “magic.” And now I ask myself – did I have to give up wonder to grow? I cannot answer the question today. Maybe I will one day. Or maybe I will become a “beggar for magic again.”
A wonderful slice of life, with a little a childhood magic sprinkled in.
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