He delights in the quirkiness of the stuff that draws regular American folk off the highways, such as road signs about the world's largest prairie dog or a five-legged cow. Of course, even a big-city critic might find some redemption in these roadside circus wonders. Kitsch, after all, is always in style. There are, after all, McDonald's in both Moscow and Paris, but few would argue that Russia and France look the same. Marie, at the head of the 75, will never be like the light over the Everglades, at the bottom of that road.
Eastern light is never as strong or as full as western light.
Place will always be distinct. A thousand McDonald's will not make Boston feel like Tucson. It's not just his ability to see detail but the pleasure that he takes in everyday American comforts and cultural escapades that separates McMurtry from the culturally fussy. For McMurtry's dad, this meant bulls. For the modern motorist like McMurtry, today's equivalent of a prime specimen bull is a good interstate, whose beauty lies in its extreme functionality and convenience.