All the pretty horses in The Passenger and Stella Maris can only be found under the hood of a car. All the power—not the Nietzschean kind, but the chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin’ out over the line kind—comes only from engineering. It’s not the first time McCarthy has given automobiles some page time. A spin down Bibliographic Lane will reveal them wrecked, reeking, or only serving some figurative purpose. Nothing has prepared us for the muscular exotic cars pornographically paraded before our eyes in the pages of The Passenger in particular as if pushed across the red carpet at a six-figure Barrett-Jackson auction. For the kind of reader who can’t tell the difference between a Ford and a Ferrari, or what all the blasted numbers mean, this is the guide. Includes a magic bus ride and a bicycle tour.

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