A sample of fiction: Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
see the child. He is pale and thin. He wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He Stokes the scullery fire outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods. Beyond that harbor. Yet a few last wolves, his folk or known for Hugh hours of wood and drawers of water. But in truth, his father has been a schoolmaster. Hey, lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him night of your birth. 33. The Leonard's. They were called God. How the stars did fall. I looked for blackness holes in the heavens, the dipper stove. The mother, dead these 14 years, did incubate in her own bosom, the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name. The child does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write, and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence or history. Present in that visage. The child, the father of the man. At 14 he runs away. He will not see again the freezing kitchen house in the predawn dark, the firewood with wash pots, he wanders west is faras Memphis, a solitary migrant. Upon that flat and pastoral landscape, blacks in the fields link and stooped their fingers spider like among the bowls of cotton, a shadowed agony in the garden against the sun's declining figures, moving in the slower dusk across a paper skyline. Ah, loan dark husband, men pursuing mule and herro down the rain blown bottom Lynn toward night. A year later, he is in ST Louis. He has taken on for New Orleans aboard a flatboat 42 days on the river. At night, the steamboats hoot in trudge, passed through the Blackwater's all a light like cities adrift. They break up the float and sell the lumber, and he walks in the streets. And here's tongues he has not heard before. He lives in a room above a courtyard behind the tavern, and he comes down at night like some fairy book beast to fight with the sailors. He is not big, but he has big wrists, big hands, his shoulders air set close. The child's face is curiously untouched. Behind the scars, the eyes oddly innocent. They fight with fists with feet, with bottles or knives. All races all breeds men whose speech sounds like the grunting of apes, men from land so far and queer that standing over them where they lie bleeding in the mud, he feels mankind itself vindicated.