When I bought this novel, I knew I
was getting a war book. I figured it would involve guns, camouflage, and
stressed-out men occasionally running around and yelling code words. Sure, it’s
a story involving war…but more importantly, it’s a book about being a human.
When O’Brien was drafted, he felt his conscription was complete and utter
bullshit. At the time, he was student body president of Macalester College with
an acceptance letter to graduate school at Harvard in his possession. And while
he dreaded the idea of being forced to participate in any war, he saw America’s involvement in Vietnam particularly
unsettling. There was an ambiguity to the combat abroad, and in his view, “You don’t make war without knowing why” (O’Brien, 38). As a result, he makes a
compelling argument that succumbing to the draft was actually an act of
cowardice. Men thought that triumphantly blazing into battle was emblematic of
their bravery. According to O’Brien, in reality, “Men killed and died because
they were embarrassed not to…they died so as not to die of embarrassment”
(O’Brien, 20). It would damage their pride and bring their family shame to
attempt and avoid the war; so instead, many men marched forward and passively
accepted their fate, even if it ended in their death. He brings to light an
interesting perspective that boils down to basic psychology: why do people do
what they do even if they don’t want to do it?
His psych session continues when he
exposes how his unit coped with the more gruesome aspects of their missions.
When people died, or if they were stuck in uncomfortable circumstances, there
was a gripping need to slough it off with humor to ease the tension. Other
times, they braced themselves for dreadful situations with deliberate
terminology. “They used a hard vocabulary to contain the terrible softness. Greased they’d say. Offed, lit up” (O’Brien, 19). O’Brien likened the war to a
Ping-Pong ball. There were ways to spin it to make it more bearable—put a twist
on the thing to make it dance in your favor (O’Brien, 31). I am exceptionally
good at Ping-Pong but I would not last a day in combat.
An additional surprise embedded in
this novel was O’Brien’s lessons on the craft of writing. When he
returned to America, writing served as a crucial tool to navigating post-war
life. Telling his stories was a cathartic endeavor that enabled him to
healthily process all that he had witnessed. Seems perfectly normal—a veteran
looking for ways to understand his experiences. But O’Brien—as the brilliant
author that he is—approaches these experiences in a much more roundabout way.
He holds an interesting conception of “truth” in which he occasionally implants
lies within his stories, “making up a few things to get at the real truth”
(O’Brien, 81). Sometimes they are little white lies; sometimes they are big,
glaring ones. Sometimes he discloses to the reader what is factual and what is
not; sometimes he keeps us guessing. This aberrant method is not about
deception; rather, it is an effort to more accurately recreate specific
sensations.
Novels like Ham on Rye and The Rum Diary tested the boundaries by meshing actual events with fictional elements.
This novel takes a step further; some plots and some characters are entirely
invented in order to make the reader feel as O’Brien truly felt in battle. Sometimes we need to be
lied to in order to empathize. But for him, the end goal is always clarity. He explains,
“By telling stories, you objectify your own experience…you pin down certain
truths. You make up others. You start sometimes with an incident that truly
happened…and you carry it forward by inventing incidents that did not in fact
occur but that nonetheless help to clarify and explain” (O’Brien, 152).
Generally, I do not like to be lied
to. If I catch you in a fib, I expect an Edible Arrangement (heavy on the
pineapple) and a Starbucks gift card. In this case, I’ll make an exception.
O’Brien is a liar because he wants to tell the truth. And that is goddamn
beautiful. His creativity alone earns this novel 5 out of 5 camel humps.
He also uses the word “humping” as a common war-term for carrying and I find
that comical, because apparently, I’m a thirteen-year-old boy. If I had written
this novel, it’d be called The Things They
Humped and it’d be much less poetic.
*O’Brien, Tim. The
Things They Carried. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing
Company, 1990. Print.
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