70% done with Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West

This is one of those cases where you’re reading something everyone says is brilliant but you don’t like/get it and you’re kinda afraid to raise your hand and say “Uh, I don’t get it”. Because you’re worried everyone is well versed in T.S. Elliot and James Joyce allusions and metaphors and symbolism and you’re the only idiot in the room. But honestly, I don’t see the point of this book, it’s just endless nothing.