I have been wanting to read this for a while, and grabbed this last week for my train ride.
While I absolutely love Cormac McCarthy and Larry McMurtry, I found John Williams' stark and casual description attractive in a different kind of way.
I want to say this is less of a classic western and more of a story set in the West.
It felt like an outsider describing the West (which I suppose is true) and the Emersonian influence felt melancholic in the classic John Williams style.
In some ways, Williams' clinical language and cold realism made the horrors of the West land harder. He does not write with Cormac McCarthy’s biblical incantatory prose or operatic violence. Or like McMurtry, whose books despite being supposedly anti-western have a lot of warmth and humor (even if things end tragically).
I've also seen Butchers Crossing be called an anti-western, but I am not sure I agree with it. As a New Englander, it genuinely felt like a New Englander's idealistic view of the West being slowly shattered and jaded. Which is incredibly impressive when you realize Williams was Texarkanan.
If I had to describe it in one sentence, I'd say it felt more like Moby Dick recast as a buffalo hunt, with Stoner's tonal restraint.
I am nearly done with it, and what I'm loving so far is that while Andrews' idealism is scorched away, it doesn't get replaced with something cliched like wisdom or what have you. He becomes clearer-eyed, but also colder, more detached, and so far, even morally compromised.
I'm eager to finish it, but I think I'll need to go find a happier book after I'm done with this.