Catching Up
Reading in hospitals is fine; writing reviews is not. So, here goes.
Why I read a book can depend on any number factors—reviews, interest in subject, a recommendation from you guys, even an author being elected to the Senate. Yep, I decided to check out James Webb.
On the cover of Webb's Fields of Fire, a Tom Wolfe blurb says, "In my opinion, the finest of the Vietnam novels." Immediately I wondered why any writer receiving such praise from such an icon in American literature would even have any interest in the Senate. A nurse in intensive care suggested power—yeah, I've heard I'm not the typical patient—but a hunger for power didn't feel right. Having now finished the book, my final answer is he ran for the Senate because a super grunt in Fields of Fire called Spider nicknamed him the Senator 'cause he was so academically and philosophically oriented. I think Webb wanted the nickname to become real. But I probably simplify. (Probably? Okay. I also waffle.)
Fields of Fire is a good book—thoughtful and engrossing. It did, however, take me forever—it seemed—to read. War novels are NOT my thing!
Three similarities between Vietnam and Iraq stuck me. (Of course they were unintentional; the copyright date is 1978.)
1) Webb draws a comparison between the French and the Americans in Vietnam. "The French, considering their obligation more permanent, had built concrete bunkers, many of which still stood ten miles away at Dai Loc. The Americans, true to the 'temporary' nature of their commitment, erected sandbag bunkers that decayed, sagging at the seams and finally bursting, oozing back into the earth each monsoon season, and had to be continually replaced," (page 210) Now what's the one building we've constructed in Iraq? How much did it cost? And what does that say about bringing the troops home soon?
2) A grunt thinks, "Every day, some new horror inflicted in the name of winning Hearts and Minds." (page 218) Still working that angle, too. Aren't we?
3) A grunt is talking. "We've been abandoned, Lieutenant. We've been kicked off the edge of the goddamn cliff. They don't know how to fight it, and they don't know how to stop fighting it. And back home it's too complicated so they forget about it and do their rooting at football games." (page 231) Gee, it's all so today—especially when at my Saturday morning protest when a car of young people drives by and someone shouts, "They're fighting for our freedom."
Anyway, it's a good book, a bit too descriptive for my taste, but good. Actually, I might even say important. I'd sure like to hear what a Vietnam vet thinks about it.
Reminiscent of Cold Mountain, Coal Black Horse by Robert Olmstead is another Civil War story. (Yep, I'm really avoiding those war novels I dislike.) In this story, Robey Childs, at the request of his mother, sets out to find his father and bring him home from the War. During his search, Robey sees the horrors of war, the indifference of those for whom it's being fought, and the glee of those able to eke out a profit. Perhaps it should be required reading for all politicians.
I didn't really need to read any of Shakespeare' Kitchen by Lorie Segal. In the introduction she talks about agreeing to turn one of her stories into a screenplay. The produces gives her books on the craft. "They said that in a good plot nothing happens that is not the result of what happened before or the cause of what happens next. I like reading stories like that, but I don't write them because that's not how life happens to me or to the people I know." (page x) I react: Then don't call what you write "stories." "Lifetime ramblings"? Perhaps. "Stories"? No! IMHO fiction provides structure to the chaos. That's its job. If you're going to present the chaos, you're not writing fiction—even if the events are made up. Or maybe Ms Segal has discovered some strange new approach that I'm too much a traditionalist—or too dense—to understand. Anyway, being the rigid person I am, I gave her fifty pages to win me over. She didn't.
