The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

I picked up this book mainly because I had read the short story, with the same title of this book (it's also chapter 1), about a year ago and it was incredible--one of the best I've ever read. And apparently my opinion is in good company because the story was also selected by Updike as one of the best of the entire 20th century. So I encourage you to at least check out the short story, The Things They Carried, if not the entire book. It tells of one company, O'Brien's, marching through Vietnam, young and scared crapless and the things the have brought along as well as the memories they have of home and the memories of war that they'd rather forget but can't. The description of this is all very intimate.

The rest of the book is an ensemble of stories; some have been previously individually published in magazines and some chapters are just snippets of information to link it all together. Because O'Brien actually was in 'Nam, the logical question to ask is whether the stories are true. For a third or so of the book, he doesn't address this issue but later explains that most of the stories are works of fiction but are intended to produce the same feelings in the reader as a true story. I think the proper term for this device is metafiction, I think. He explains this well with an example of trying to remember walking upon a dead body. He stumbles upon the dead body, cold and stiff, and then looks at the face. This happened 20 years ago so he doesn't remember exactly what the face looks like but he does remember his feeling upon looking at it. Thus to produce this same feeling in his reader, he remembers the body:

His was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him.

He admits that this made up but it is important to tell it like this to make things present. And halfway through the book it doesn't really matter whether the stories actually happened or not--not because his style is simply great but because the point of it all is not the content but what the content does. It's kinda hard to explain but I think what he gets out of all this is a kind of catharsis.

The writing is excellent and extremely readable (the pages fly by), but this book is so much more. Even though it's fiction, it's an intimate account of the horrors of the war, of desperate camaraderie in fatal times, and the difficult trial of living beyond the war. And, in my opinion, it's told in the most painful yet compelling way possible--through story.

Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters; and, Seymour an Introduction by J.D. Salinger

J.D. Salinger wowwwwww. He could squat, hold his hands 4 inches below his rectum, defecate, and smear it on a page and I would still read it--and probably pee my pants because it was literally the best s$%* I ever read. Seriously, these two novellas of sorts are quite impressive. Raise High is classic Salinger--an absolutely simple plot (2 afternoon hours take up the whole 100 pages) with fascinatingly witty characters. I think what I love most about his writing is the fact that the characters seem so real in their thoughts and actions. I feel like if I were to meet Salinger's protagonists in real life, they would be nothing short of the most interesting people in the world.

Reading Salinger makes me think writing is so easy. The way he puts two words together and continues to combine those two words with another set is really sweet. I think he gets into the psychology of his characters really well and he does this without being ornate; rather his beauty lies in its simplicity. Seymour is a bit crazier and doesn't follow the conventions of a novel. It is truly an introduction to probably Salinger's favorite Glass family character, Seymour, but told through the eyes of Buddy. From my reading, and this may be overly simplistic, it seems that the real Salinger is revealed phsyically through Buddy but speaks his mind through Seymour. These thoughts were easily the hardest part to read and my favorite part was the description of Seymour's athletic ability. I also really like, and was surprised to find, that Seymour, the same one from A Perfect Day for Bananafish, was actually pretty normal (in Salinger's mind) with an appetite to please and be a good example for his six younger siblings. In other works, Seymour is not mentally content but in this setting he was quite likable.

For fans of The Catcher in the Rye, I highly recommend Raise High. Seymour is harder to get through but rewarding for the biggest Salinger fanatics. Final thought: while I may not consider Salinger the biggest literary genius of the 20th century, I think he will continue to be my favorite author for a long time to come.

Oh and politely excuse this short post, including its frankness and extreme colloquialisms. I was trying to get any thoughts I had on the book in a short amount of time.

Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

"What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm?"

Above is a passage from one of the greatest of the many always verbose, often brilliant soliloquies delivered by Captain Ahab in Melville's 1851 epic, Moby-Dick, or The Whale. Clearly, Shakespeare is the template for much of what Melville does in the novel (excepting the earlier chapters, which were actually written before Melville had ever even read any Shakespeare!) But, as one classmate said in discussing this, his turn around must have been awfully fast. That is to say, it is truly astounding how quickly Melville went from having never read Shakespeare to not only having read him, but adapting his forms to a novel about whaling. Indeed, there are moments when it seems that Shakespeare is whispering to him from the grave. Before Moby-Dick, Melville wrote a few interesting and successful novels that were mostly plot-driven intrigues. Moby-Dick is without precedent in Melville's oeuvre. As my professor postulates, it seems to me that, had Melville not read Shakespeare in the midst of its composition, it would likely have turned out to be no more than the page-turner that seems to be set up in its beginning chapters. Don't get me wrong here--the opening chapters are good. They well-written, interesting, and often quite funny. However, it is not until well in to the book (the point in which Melville encountered Shakespeare's works by suggestion of his neighbor Nathaniel Hawthorne) that the we begin to find the beginnings of the metaphysical questions and internal conflicts that give most, if not all, of its true sublimity and seemingly unsearchable depth. Clearly, I am a big fan of this book. Reading it is a chore, to be sure, but if you give it time and careful attention, the rewards are enormous. Keep in mind that I began reading it as a nineteenth century American literature cynic (which I remain) with very negative reviews from many people for whose opinions I have great respect (among them my favorite professor and my father). Please believe me when I say that, in reading Moby-Dick, I am convinced that it is among the great novels of the English language, of any language.