The Cruddiness of Cormac (continued)

Cormac McCarthy was a bad writer and an interesting phenomenon. Why did so many people say that he was a great writer, a genius, a giant of American letters? The puzzle isn’t as big as it appears. As with most over-rated artists, some of the people who said they liked him could see or glimpse the truth. They knew that he was pretentious and posturing, that he chose words clumsily and carelessly, had no sense of rhythm or the ridiculous, and wrote with all the natural grace and beauty of a chimpanzee riding a tricycle.

But most of those who saw the truth about Mccarthy didn’t dare to speak it. They stood beside the procession of praise and prizes and stayed shtum, when they should have shouted: “The emperor has no clothes!” A critic called B.R. Myers did dare to speak the truth. He shouted “The emperor has no clothes!” at the Atlantic in 2001:

McCarthy relies more on barrages of hit-and-miss verbiage than on careful use of just the right words. […] No novelist with a sense of the ridiculous would write such nonsense. Although his characters sometimes rib one another, McCarthy is among the most humorless writers in American history. […] It is a rare passage that can make you look up, wherever you may be, and wonder if you are being subjected to a diabolically thorough Candid Camera prank. I can just go along with the idea that horses might mistake human retching for the call of wild animals. But “wild animals” isn’t epic enough: McCarthy must blow smoke about some rude provisional species, as if your average quadruped had impeccable table manners and a pension plan. […] All the Pretty Horses received the National Book Award in 1992. “Not until now,” the judges wrote in their fatuous citation, “has the unhuman world been given its own holy canon.” What a difference a pseudo-biblical style makes; this so-called canon has little more to offer than the conventional belief that horses, like dogs, serve us well enough to merit exemption from an otherwise sweeping disregard for animal life. (No one ever sees a cow’s soul.) – “A Reader’s Manifesto”, The Atlantic (July 2001)

Myers is also right on the money when he says that McCarthy “thinks it more important to sound literary than to make sense.” He lets the gas out of McCarthy’s bloated reputation like a bad simile firing a bazooka into a dead whale. If you can’t see the cruddiness of Cormac, I recommend that you read Myers’ essay. It covers more bad writers than McCarthy, though, so if you’re pressed for time, just search for “Cormac” and have your eyes opened. Or not, as the case may be.

As for me, I’d like to re-quote a passage from McCarthy’s Pulitzer-prize-winning The Road (2006). I’ve already looked at it in “King Cormac”, but I have more to say:

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast.

Is that good writing? No, it’s cruddy writing. Please consider these two sentences:

Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath.

You’ve got the pretentious and portentous “some cold glaucoma” followed by the hackneyed, Oprah-esque “precious breath”. The noun didn’t need any adjective. This is far stronger:

His hand rose and fell softly with each breath.

With “precious breath”, McCarthy was telling his readers what to think about the feelings of a father for his son. With just “breath”, he would have let his readers think it for themselves. Now look at this sentence:

He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none.

Is that good writing? No, again it’s cruddy writing. The sentence has no grace or rhythm and ends as McCarthy’s sentences so often do: with a bathetic thud. As Myers says of another of Cormac’s cruds: it can’t be “read aloud in a natural fashion.” This re-write of the sentence is stronger:

He pushed away the tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking blankets and looked toward the east for light. But there was none.

And the re-write can be “read aloud in a natural fashion”. The Road is full of sentences that cry out in vain for a re-write. So are McCarthy’s other books. Not that I’ve read those other books, but I can see it from Myers’ essay and from quotes like this:

You can appreciate the language in McCarthy’s fiction for its lexical richness, gothic rhythms, and descriptive precision. In Suttree, you positively live on the grimy shore of the Tennessee River, where the “water was warm to the touch and had a granular lubricity like graphite.” Same for Blood Meridian. The Southwest desert is your home, or prison. You look up at the night sky. “All night sheetlightning quaked sourceless to the west beyond the midnight thunderheads, making a bluish day of the distant desert, the mountains on the sudden skyline stark and black and livid like a land of some other order out there whose true geology was not stone but fear.” – “a href=”https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2023/06/16/on-cormac-mccarthy/”>On Cormac McCarthy”, The Paris Review (June 2023)

No, McCarthy’s language did not have “descriptive precision”. As B.R. Myers repeatedly demonstrates, it had the opposite: descriptive imprecision. That bit about the “true geology” being “fear” is, like so much of McCarthy’s writing, unintentionally funny. It suffers from the same fault as A.E. Housman identified in some of Swinburne’s more careless moments:

[M]uch worse can be said of another kind of simile, which grows common in his later writings. When a poet says that hatred is hot as fire or chastity white as snow, we can only object that we have often heard this before and that, considered as ornament, it is rather trite and cheap. But when he inverts his comparison and says that fire is hot as hatred and snow white as chastity, he is a fool for his pains. The heat of fire and the whiteness of snow are so much more sharply perceived than those qualities of hatred and chastity which have heat and whiteness for courtesy titles, that these similes actually blur the image and dilute the force of what is said. – “Swinburne” by A.E. Housman (1910)

A geology of stone is “much more sharply perceived” than a geology of fear. Whatever that is anyway. The cruddiness of Cormac also inspired cruddy writing by others. And still does:

McCarthy wrote figures, like Judge Holden, who were the genocidal tycoons of that brutal machine [of American history] and greased its wheels. Others, like Billy Parham, became its more indirect, melancholic grist. – “On Cormac McCarthy”, The Paris Review (June 2023)

Tycoons don’t grease wheels. That’s a job for underlings, not tycoons. And grist is what’s ground in a mill, not what fuels a brutal machine with wheels. “Indirect grist” doesn’t make sense. What do you do with indirect grist? Pretend to put it in a mill? As for “melancholic grist”: that’s both clumsy and funny. Cormac’s cruddiness continues. Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi!


Previously Pre-Posted (please peruse)

King Cormac — a look at the malign influence of McCarthy on the far better writer Stephen King

King Cormac

I had only one problem with Cormac McCarthy. He was crap.

More later.

Okay?

For now, let’s consider another famous writer. Millions of people have been writing English for hundreds of years. So the competition is intense for “Worst Simile Ever Written in English”. I still think this must be a leading contender:

Billy Nolan was at the pink fuzz-covered wheel [of the car]. Jackie Talbot, Henry Blake, Steve Deighan, and the Garson brothers, Kenny and Lou, were also squeezed in. Three joints were going, passing through the inner dark like the lambent eyes of some rotating Cerberus.

That’s from Stephen King’s Carrie (1974), describing some ill-intentioned teenagers smoking joints in a car. The paragraph starts gently and unpretentiously, lulling you into a false sense of security. Then wham! It hits you with “like the lambent eyes of some rotating Cerberus”. And where do I begin to dissect the wrongness of that simile? It’s simultaneously pretentious and illogical and ill-judged and anachronistic and clankingly clumsy and just plain stoopid. So where do I begin? Okay, I’ll begin with this observation: Cerberus had six eyes, not three (he had three heads, remember). So how did his six “lambent eyes” look like three glowing joints? Were his eyes very close-set? Did he keep three of them closed? Was he in fact part-dog, part-Cyclops, so that he only had three eyes after all? Yes, by “rotating” King means that now the three right eyes, now the three left eyes of Cerberus are visible, but there would be times when all six eyes were visible. And why is Cerberus rotating anyway?

I don’t know. And those questions by no means exhaust the idiotic possibilities raised by the simile. Let’s now ask how King’s lambent-eyed Cerberus was “rotating”. If his whole body was rotating on a vertical axis through his shoulders, say, then his three heads and six eyes would have been following too big an arc to fit the scene. So one has to assume that it was only his three heads and six eyes rotating on his one neck. Round and round and round. Which is a ridiculous image, not an eerie or ominous one.

No, we gotta face facts: King aimed for the Underworld and shot himself in the arse. And for the icing on the cake, we’ve got that poetic “some”. It wasn’t “a rotating Cerberus”, which would have been quite bad enough. It was “some rotating Cerberus”, as though King was setting his simile gently and carefully down on a bed of black velvet or plinth of polished obsidian, awestruck by the depth of his own erudition and the breadth of his own imagination. Fair enough: he’s human, he erred, I can forgive him. But how did the simile get past his editor and publisher and wife? Why did someone not say to him: “Steve, I like the book, in fact I love the book, but that appalling simile in part one has just gotta go?” Or why didn’t an editor suggest a re-write? I’d suggest this:

• Three joints were going, shifting in the inner dark like the glowing eyes of a watchful Cerberus.

Now the simile kinda works. The teenagers are up to something evil, but they don’t know that they’re going to unleash hell and harm themselves too. There’s authorial irony in the simile now: the hell-hound Cerberus is with them in spirit, conjured by the passing of the joints, but they, as characters in the story, don’t know it. They don’t know that Cerberus is patiently watching them, waiting to feast on their souls. I think the re-write removes the pretentiousness of linking ’70s American teenagers in a car with a monster from Greek mythology. The teenagers are evil but petty. It’s appropriate that they’re ignorant of grander and grotesquer things, like the three-headed hell-hound Cerberus and the telekinetic powers of the girl they’re planning to humiliate.

Alas, King or one of his editors didn’t re-write the simile. The original stayed put and turned the sentence into one of the worst I’ve ever read. And it was definitely the worst I’ve ever read in a book by Stephen King. That simile was bad by King’s own standards, because he’s not usually a pretentious or preening writer. So why did he write so badly there? I suspect the malign influence of another and much more critically acclaimed writer: the recently deceased Cormac McCarthy, who is easily the most pretentious and over-rated writer I’ve ever come across. I couldn’t finish Blood Meridian (1985) and although I did manage to finish The Road (2006), it didn’t change my opinion of the author. Cormac is crap. But Stephen King takes him seriously and, I suspect, was paying some kind of misguided homage to him when he came up with that appallingly bad “like the lambent eyes of some rotating Cerberus.”

If I’d read more of Cormac McCarthy’s books, I might be able to provide stronger evidence of my theory about his malign influence on that particular sentence in Carrie. But why would I want to read more of Cormac McCarthy’s books? I’m not a masochist and I don’t like reading bad English and pretentious prose. All the same, here’s a bit from The Road that suggests to me that King was imitating Cormac:

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast.

There’s a lot of bad writing there, but I want to look at the two similes. They both use bad and pretentious imagery and they both have a would-be poetic “some”. Take the first simile. What on earth is a “cold glaucoma”? That doesn’t make sense. It isn’t the glaucoma that’s cold: it’s the way the glaucoma makes the world appear. “Cold glaucoma” is certainly an interesting medical concept, but it’s crap writing in a novel. Now take the second simile. What on earth is a “granitic beast”? If a beast is made of granite, how does it swallow people, let alone digest them? Granite is very solid and very rigid. The simile doesn’t work. And why did McCarthy say “inward parts” rather than the stronger “bowels”? Because he was doing what he did so often: writing badly and carelessly and pretentiously. “Granitic beast” is a stoopid image and the pretentious “granitic” makes it even worse.

Okay, neither simile is as bad as King’s “lambent-eyes-of-Cerberus” atrocity, but I detect a family resemblance and I think that King was trying to imitate some earlier writing by McCarthy. He shouldn’t have done. The ironic thing is that King himself is a better writer than McCarthy. I am too. But then who isn’t? It’s much easier to think of writers who are better than Cormac McCarthy than of writers who are worse. Let’s see: Will Self is worse. But who else? I’m glad to say that I can’t come up with anyone else. If I could come up with someone else, I would’ve suffered by reading another very bad writer.

Anyway, here’s my re-write of that extract from The Road:

When he woke in the woods in the dark and cold he’d reach out and touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and each day grayer than the day before, as though he viewed the world through dying eyes. His hand rose and fell softly with each breath. He pushed away the tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking blankets and looked toward the east for light. In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Light played over the wet flowstone walls. They seemed like travelers in a story, swallowed and lost in the bowels of a petrified giant.

That’s still not very good, but it’s a definite improvement. If you don’t agree, you have a cloth ear for prose. And here’s my review of the whole book from 2013:

Highway to Hell

Cormac McCarthy won the Pulitzer Prize for The Road in 2007. The book is set in the aftermath of a world-wide cataclysm.

So is Stephen King’s The Stand (1978).

But The Road is much shorter than The Stand.

It makes up for this by being

much more pre

tentious

too.

Okay?

It is also much

less enter

taining.

Which is not to say that

The Road doesn’t have its

entertain

ing

bits.

For example

(spoiler alert)

the bit where the

unnamedfatherandsonprotagonists

go

into a wood and find

a fire where

some folks (far from

unferal)

have been preparing to

roast

and

eat a

b

a

b

y

.

.

.

For me

this was a

laugh-

out-loud mo

ment.

The “catamites” were pretty

funny

,

also

.

If you take Cormac McCarthy

seriously

my brother (or

sister)

I think that

you need to

grow up.

Okay?

But you

probably

nev

er

w

i

l

l

.

.

.


Elsewhere Other-Accessible…

A Reader’s Manifesto — B.R. Myers agrees with me about McCarthy, inter alios (et alias)

Gleet the Beatles

The Guardian incisively interrogates issues around the Scouse Superstars:

Just in terms of pure sales they still dominate. In the first half of the year in the US – half a century on from Ed Sullivan, screaming fans, the olds just not getting it – they sold more albums than anyone else; the only group that came close over that period were BTS, a group who are regularly compared to the Beatles in terms of their planet-straddling massiveness. — The Guide #10: the enduring appeal of the Beatles, The Guardian, 26xi21


Elsewhere other-accessible

Ex-Term-In-Ate! — interrogating issues around why “in terms of” is so teratographically toxic…
All posts interrogating issues around “in terms of”…
All posts interrogating issues around the Guardian-reading community and its affiliates…

Prose Shows

I don’t know about you, but this is exactly what I like to see in the opening paragraph of an essay engaging issues around William S. Burroughs and the cult of rock’n’roll dot dot dot…

Naked Lunch is inseparable from its author William S. Burroughs, which tends to happen with certain major works. The book may be the only Burroughs title many literature buffs can name. In terms of name recognition, Naked Lunch is a bit like Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, which also arrived in 1959. Radical for its time, Kind of Blue now sounds quaint, though it is undeniably a masterwork. — William S. Burroughs and the Cult of Rock ’n’ Roll, Casey Rae

Did you spot it? Didja?


Previously pre-posted:

The Hum of Heresy
The Conqueror Term
Bill Self

Vibe Alibe

“The recent election of Syriza in Greece offers a vibrant glimmer of hope for the future of social and economic democracy in Europe.” — from a letter to The Guardian by Judith Butler, Slavoj Žižek, Jacqueline Rose, et al.

Mix to the Marx

“And in the global climate of the early 90s, it’s perhaps not surprising that the ANC bent to the neoliberal flood tide, putting its Freedom Charter calls for public ownership and redistribution of land on the back burner.” — Mandela has been sanitised by hypocrites and apologists, Seamus Milne, The Guardian, 12/xii/2013.


Previously pre-posted (please peruse):

Reds under the Thread

Fifty Sense

I can recommend George Orwell’s essay “Politics and the English Language” (1946) to anyone who wants to write better English. Or better French, Georgian, Arabic, Mandarin or Tagalog, because some of Orwell’s advice is universal. But perhaps the essay is partly a joke: Orwell may deliberately have committed some of the literary sins he criticizes. Or not deliberately. Orwell wasn’t infallible, despite his modern cult. He wasn’t a perfect observer either, but I don’t think his failure to criticize “in terms of” in the essay is a bad oversight. The phrase wasn’t the blight in his day that it is today. All the same, you can see its spores beginning to drift through the flower-beds of English literature in the 1930s and ’40s. Orwell himself uses it nineteen times in the Fifty Orwell Essays available at the Australian Gutenberg site. But that’s roughly one I.T.O. for every 12,000 words or 2·63 essays, which I think is a healthy ratio. No I.T.O.’s at all would have been even healthier, though some are defensible and may be the best way of expressing Orwell’s thought. Others, however, seem to me to be tending towards Guardianese. I’ve collected them all here and suggested alternatives. Sometimes it might be better to re-write more fully, but only two alternatives are longer than the I.T.O. they replace (orthographically, at least).

From Charles Dickens:

More completely than most writers, perhaps, Dickens can be explained in terms of his social origin, though actually his family history was not quite what one would infer from his novels. → More completely than most writers, perhaps, Dickens can be explained by / through his social origin, though actually his family history was not quite what one would infer from his novels.

What now strikes us as remarkable about the new moneyed class of the nineteenth century is their complete irresponsibility; they see everything in terms of individual success, with hardly any consciousness that the community exists. → What now strikes us as remarkable about the new moneyed class of the nineteenth century is their complete irresponsibility; they see everything by / through individual success, with hardly any consciousness that the community exists.

When he speaks of human progress it is usually in terms of moral progress – men growing better; probably he would never admit that men are only as good as their technical development allows them to be. → When he speaks of human progress it is usually as moral progress – men growing better; probably he would never admit that men are only as good as their technical development allows them to be.

I have been discussing Dickens simply in terms of his “message”, and almost ignoring his literary qualities. → I have been discussing Dickens simply by / through his “message”, and almost ignoring his literary qualities.

The truth is that it is absurd to make such comparisons in terms of “better” and “worse”. → The truth is that it is absurd to make such comparisons with / by “better” and “worse”.

Charles Dickens (1940)


From Inside the Whale:

Alliances, changes of front etc., which only make sense as part of the game of power politics have to be explained and justified in terms of international socialism. → Alliances, changes of front etc., which only make sense as part of the game of power politics have to be explained and justified by / through international socialism.

Miller replied in terms of extreme pacifism, an individual refusal to fight, with no apparent wish to convert others to the same opinion – practically, in fact, a declaration of irresponsibility. → Miller replied as an extreme pacifist, as an individual refusing to fight, with no apparent wish to convert others to the same opinion – practically, in fact, a declaration of irresponsibility.

Inside the Whale (1940)


From The Lion and the Unicorn:

At the same time the Labour Party was a Socialist party, using Socialist phraseology, thinking in terms of an old-fashioned anti-imperialism and more or less pledged to make restitution to the coloured races. → At the same time the Labour Party was a Socialist party, using Socialist phraseology, thinking of / by an old-fashioned anti-imperialism and more or less pledged to make restitution to the coloured races.

Because the time has come when one can predict the future in terms of an “either–or”. → Because the time has come when one can predict the future with / by an “either–or”.

The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius (1941)


From Looking Back on the Spanish War:

I saw, in fact, history being written not in terms of what happened but of what ought to have happened according to various “party lines”. → I saw, in fact, history being written not by what happened but by what ought to have happened according to various “party lines”.

Looking Back on the Spanish War (1942)


From Antisemitism in Britain:

There is more antisemitism in England than we care to admit, and the war has accentuated it, but it is not certain that it is on the increase if one thinks in terms of decades rather than years. → There is more antisemitism in England than we care to admit, and the war has accentuated it, but it is not certain that it is on the increase if one thinks in decades rather than years.

Antisemitism in Britain (1945)


From In Defence of P. G. Wodehouse:

He had missed the turning-point of the war, and in 1941 he was still reacting in terms of 1939. → He had missed the turning-point of the war, and in 1941 he was still reacting as though it were 1939.

In Defence of P. G. Wodehouse (1945)


From Notes on Nationalism:

A nationalist is one who thinks solely, or mainly, in terms of competitive prestige. → A nationalist is one who thinks solely, or mainly, of / by competitive prestige.

In practice, however, the necessary calculations cannot be made, because anyone likely to bother his head about such a question would inevitably see it in terms of competitive prestige. → In practice, however, the necessary calculations cannot be made, because anyone likely to bother his head about such a question would inevitably see it through / by competitive prestige.

But Chesterton was not content to think of this superiority as merely intellectual or spiritual: it had to be translated into terms of national prestige and military power, which entailed an ignorant idealisation of the Latin countries, especially France. → But Chesterton was not content to think of this superiority as merely intellectual or spiritual: it had to be translated into national prestige and military power, which entailed an ignorant idealisation of the Latin countries, especially France.

History is thought of largely in nationalist terms, and such things as the Inquisition, the tortures of the Star Chamber, the exploits of the English buccaneers (Sir Francis Drake, for instance, who was given to sinking Spanish prisoners alive), the Reign of Terror, the heroes of the Mutiny blowing hundreds of Indians from the guns, or Cromwell’s soldiers slashing Irishwomen’s faces with razors, become morally neutral or even meritorious when it is felt that they were done in the ‘right’ cause. → History is thought of largely through nationalism, and such things as the Inquisition, the tortures of the Star Chamber, the exploits of the English buccaneers (Sir Francis Drake, for instance, who was given to sinking Spanish prisoners alive), the Reign of Terror, the heroes of the Mutiny blowing hundreds of Indians from the guns, or Cromwell’s soldiers slashing Irishwomen’s faces with razors, become morally neutral or even meritorious when it is felt that they were done in the ‘right’ cause.

Notes on Nationalism (1945)


From The Sporting Spirit:

It is the most violently combative sports, football and boxing, that have spread the widest. There cannot be much doubt that the whole thing is bound up with the rise of nationalism – that is, with the lunatic modern habit of identifying oneself with large power units and seeing everything in terms of competitive prestige. → There cannot be much doubt that the whole thing is bound up with the rise of nationalism – that is, with the lunatic modern habit of identifying oneself with large power units and seeing everything by competitive prestige.

The Sporting Spirit (1945)


From Books vs. Cigarettes:

Exactly what reading costs, reckoned in terms of pence per hour, is difficult to estimate, but I have made a start by inventorying my own books and adding up their total price. → Exactly what reading costs, reckoned in pence per hour, is difficult to estimate, but I have made a start by inventorying my own books and adding up their total price.

There are books that one reads over and over again, books that become part of the furniture of one’s mind and alter one’s whole attitude to life, books that one dips into but never reads through, books that one reads at a single sitting and forgets a week later: and the cost, in terms of money, may be the same in each case. → There are books that one reads over and over again, books that become part of the furniture of one’s mind and alter one’s whole attitude to life, books that one dips into but never reads through, books that one reads at a single sitting and forgets a week later: and the cost, in money, may be the same in each case.

Books vs. Cigarettes (1946)


From Writers and Leviathan:

Quite largely, indeed, the workers were won over to Socialism by being told that they were exploited, whereas the brute truth was that, in world terms, they were exploiters. → Quite largely, indeed, the workers were won over to Socialism by being told that they were exploited, whereas the brute truth was that, viewed from overseas, they were exploiters.

Writers and Leviathan (1948)


From Reflections on Gandhi:

Even when he was fighting what was in effect a color war, he did not think of people in terms of race or status. → Even when he was fighting what was in effect a color war, he did not think of people by race or status.

At the same time there is reason to think that Gandhi, who after all was born in 1869, did not understand the nature of totalitarianism and saw everything in terms of his own struggle against the British government. → At the same time there is reason to think that Gandhi, who after all was born in 1869, did not understand the nature of totalitarianism and saw everything through his own struggle against the British government.

Reflections on Gandhi (1949)


Previously pre-posted (please peruse):

Ex-term-in-ate!

Titus Graun

Reds Under the Thread

He Say, He Sigh, He Sow

“It’s only really in the last decade or so that I’ve started to engage seriously with what I think the implications of modernism are in terms of the novel…” – Will Self, The Observer, Sunday, 5th August, 2012.


Pre-Previously Posted (Please Peruse)

Ex-Term-In-Ate!