Review: Denis Johnson's "Tree of Smoke"

"Tree of Smoke," "Fog of War," "Heart of Darkness" -- apparently, clarity of vision is one of the inevitable casualties of any protracted conflict. Original objectives, rules of engagement, perceptions of right and wrong, the true nature of the enemy -- these concepts eventually begin to shift and tumble like the colored shards in a kaleidoscope.

I've always preferred viewing movies about the Viet Nam War over reading books about the same. Stone, Kubrick, and Coppola have all captured the tragedy, heroism, and absurdity of Viet Nam with a sensory immediacy that leaves the viewer exhausted but edified -- the 2-3 hour cinematic journey is painful, but the viewer emerges from the experience as a better person. When Denis Johnson's "Tree of Smoke" won the National Book Award for fiction, I decided I would overcome my hesitancy about Viet Nam novels and actually read the book.

Three weeks and 600 pages later, I've reached two conclusions: 1) Reading about a brutal, senseless war for days on end is considerably more draining than viewing 2 hours of "Full Metal Jacket." I read a good portion of the book while vacationing in Cabo San Lucas, and it colored my experience of the entire trip. 2) That being said, I am glad I read Johnson's prizewinner. The book's title, "Tree of Smoke," aptly reflects a theme that is explored throughout the novel: the ambiguity and duality of human nature, and our innate drive to seek absolutes in a gray world that rebuffs our attempts to answer life's deepest questions.

The book's primary story is that of Skip Sands, a CIA Special Ops agent, as he experiences the war and its aftermath from 1964-1984. The reader is also drawn into the tale of Skip's legendary uncle, the Colonel; Skip's wartime lover, a Christian relief worker named Kathy; an unforgettable Viet Cong agent named Trung who "turns" for the US; and two hapless brothers from Arizona who lack all sense of personal direction. Nothing is clear here. Is Skip ultimately a true believer who is betrayed by his country, or a gun-running criminal who has lost his moral compass? Is "The Colonel" a heroic leader worthy of mythic deification, or an alcoholic who has crossed the line from eccentricity to madness? Is Trung a man of conscience who switches his allegiance based upon principle, or an opportunist who cooperates with the highest bidder? Does Kathy believe her missionary message, or is she just going through the motions out of habit? Does the war ruin Bill and James, or are they losers who were destined to meet a bad end under any circumstances? Even the underlying symbolism of the "Tree of Smoke" changes; it is depicted variously as the unwavering pillar of fire that led the Children of Israel out of Egypt, the smoky cloud of an atomic bomb, the murky branches of a CIA organization whose objectives are unclear, and the profound chaos and confusion of combat itself.

I highly recommend this book.

Book Breakups

You know the feeling -- you're 80 pages into that new book you've been dying to read, and despite your best efforts (you're optimistic, attentive, and open minded), a tiny voice in the back of your head is beginning to tell you that this relationship is going nowhere. At what point do you decide to cut your losses and run?

A good way to begin assessing the odds of an imminent literary breakup is to ask yourself: Why was I attracted to this book in the first place? The following reasons usually presage a bad end:

1. "I really, really wanted to be the kind of person who would fall in love with this book." Who wouldn't want to cleanse their soul with "Buddha Is As Buddha Does" after a lost weekend of extravagant shoe shopping or bar hopping? Problem: after about three days, your guilt level abates, your inner self begins to resurface, and you suspect that Buddha could benefit from a stiff drink and a makeover.

2. "We looked so good when we were together." We all know that a worn paperback by Kafka (Palahniuk, Auster, etc.) really resonates with those edgy eyeglasses that you purchased last month, but face it, most enjoyable reading takes place when no one is looking.

3. "We hooked up on impulse -- the King's English was charming, it was hors d'oeuvre night, and I'd never seen a more enticing book jacket." Everyone's done this at least once. Blame it on the box wine.

4. "My mom (sister, best friend, etc.) wouldn't stop pestering me until I read this book." If your mom's favorite book of all time was "The Bridges of Madison County," you should have seen this one coming. Plus, remember that time when you finally caved in and agreed to go to the junior prom with your piano teacher's nephew . . . . .

5. "I thought it would pique my boyfriend's interest if he saw me reading this book." This is the literary equivalent of subjecting yourself to that tight, scratchy lingerie from VS. Have a little self respect.

Seriously, it is hard to know when to call it quits with a book. On the one hand, as I get older, I realize that life is short and I don't need to commit to every book I happen to check out of the library. On the other hand, perseverance sometimes has its rewards -- after a rocky start, I decided to give "Tree of Smoke" by Denis Johnson the benefit of a doubt, and now that I've arrived at page 250 (the book is over 600 pages long!) I find myself totally engrossed with the characters and the story as a whole. I'm really glad I hung in there. I'd love to hear from others about just how far they are willing to go with a book before they decide it's just not going to happen.

Edmund White, Libraries, and "Positive Loneliness"

Edmund White begins his new short story, "Record Time," with the observation that "loneliness can be a full state or an empty one." White then contrasts the self-conscious, stomach-churning loneliness of his adolescent school experiences with the fulfilling, self-sufficient isolation that he learned to revel in as a 13 -year old -- a loneliness that was redeemed by the company of music, novels, and art books borrowed from his local library. He writes: "I'd come home from school by way of the library, my biceps aching from my burden of records, scores, and books, and I'd barricade myself in my room." Library books transformed his empty room into a welcome sanctuary.

White describes the various treasures he lugged home from the library in loving detail -- a Brahm's violin concerto sleeved in a romantic 1950's record jacket, a Japanese art book containing a wood block print of young lovers running on high wooden shoes through the morning rain, book titles listed inside the musty dust jackets of the Modern Library -- and it is clear that he attributes much of what he is today to those adolescent hours of solitary discovery.

White absorbed the library materials voraciously, without judgment ("I didn't think to judge these experiences any more than a starving man turns up his nose at food"). He enjoyed reading the opinions of others, however, and as his Midwestern world broadened and deepened, he grew into himself.

If you love libraries and what they stand for, I highly recommend that you take the time to read White's short story. You can find it in one of his recent books, "Chaos." I think that you'll recognize a bit of yourself in the story -- I did.

One cautionary note -- the three short stories in "Chaos" are all superb -- they have broad appeal and address universal truths. The novella, after which the book is titled, tends toward the "raw" end of White's writing spectrum (not, as Jerry Seinfeld would say, that there's anything wrong with that), and may not be everyone's cup of tea.

Reflections on the Homeless

As temperatures drop, our homeless visitors flock into the library to warm up, catch stolen moments of sleep, and, upon occasion, read. The unrelenting predictability of their daily onslaught can be alternately maddening and guilt-producing; they are like that black sheep uncle who keeps showing up plastered at your family Christmas party year after year, despite the cool reception he always receives. You are dismayed that he has once again shown up on your doorstep, but he is, after all, your uncle.

Thinking about the homeless prompted me to write a poem --

TRASH BAG QUEEN

Last week I paused after lunch
to watch the trash bag queen challenge god
from the mean tar corner of Fifth and Jackson.

Her lurching sermon drew a flinch-eyed crowd
close enough to smell her dance
of wet cigarettes and focused distraction,
juju eyes burning like weeds
beneath sticky hair
that strained toward heaven
with the bent plea of a lost child seeking jesus.

I left when it started to rain --
I thought she might draw lightning.