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tuan 's review for:
The Things They Carried
by Tim O'Brien
Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried is a detailed and intimate look into the lives of American soldiers in the Vietnam War. At times, it's gruesome, disorienting, and torturous. Despite its underlying sense of dread and horror, the novel avoids being bleak or oppressively heavy. Instead, it is earnest, raw, and, above all, deeply moving.
O'Brien’s prose is vivid and descriptive, infused with a poetic flare, but still remains accessible and grounded. Sometimes, his sentences surges forward like an unrelenting march, a flood of imagery bursting forth—pounding, demanding, urgent.
As a Vietnamese native, reading this was a conflict in itself. These soldiers were the enemy. They killed, destroyed, and poisoned. Yet, they were also human, with complex lives and emotions. This book is semi-autobiographical, meaning some of its events are based on reality. Some of the acts committed against my country, my countrymen, were undeniably despicable. Yet, I can’t bring myself to place full blame on the characters or the author. They were perpetrators, yes, but also victims of their circumstances. My reactions toward them fluctuated between sympathy, disgust, rage, and pity.
War is war. There was an enemy. It was life or death—kill or be killed. War is unforgiving, vicious, and all-consuming. It dehumanizes. It corrupts. There are bound to be uncomfortable details, disturbing images, and degrading terms. Admittedly, some passages were particularly difficult for me to read, especially those depicting how the VC—my compatriots—were regarded and treated.
Like any book, this one has its biases and agenda. A perfect war narrative does not exist—not from either opposing side, nor from a theoretical collaboration between the two. However, I appreciate that this specific book is introspective, sincere, and notably sympathetic to and reasonably informed about the country where the war took place.
That said, O'Brien’s constant reminders that some stories and details were exaggerated or entirely untrue diminish the impact and credibility of the narrative. I understand the point he’s making, but the execution feels too heavy-handed for my taste. You don’t have to lecture me on the necessity of fiction—I read it almost exclusively. However, no argument can convince me that repeatedly emphasizing how much of the story is embellished or fabricated, purely to elicit an emotional response, is a mark of good storytelling.
O'Brien’s prose is vivid and descriptive, infused with a poetic flare, but still remains accessible and grounded. Sometimes, his sentences surges forward like an unrelenting march, a flood of imagery bursting forth—pounding, demanding, urgent.
As a Vietnamese native, reading this was a conflict in itself. These soldiers were the enemy. They killed, destroyed, and poisoned. Yet, they were also human, with complex lives and emotions. This book is semi-autobiographical, meaning some of its events are based on reality. Some of the acts committed against my country, my countrymen, were undeniably despicable. Yet, I can’t bring myself to place full blame on the characters or the author. They were perpetrators, yes, but also victims of their circumstances. My reactions toward them fluctuated between sympathy, disgust, rage, and pity.
War is war. There was an enemy. It was life or death—kill or be killed. War is unforgiving, vicious, and all-consuming. It dehumanizes. It corrupts. There are bound to be uncomfortable details, disturbing images, and degrading terms. Admittedly, some passages were particularly difficult for me to read, especially those depicting how the VC—my compatriots—were regarded and treated.
Like any book, this one has its biases and agenda. A perfect war narrative does not exist—not from either opposing side, nor from a theoretical collaboration between the two. However, I appreciate that this specific book is introspective, sincere, and notably sympathetic to and reasonably informed about the country where the war took place.
That said, O'Brien’s constant reminders that some stories and details were exaggerated or entirely untrue diminish the impact and credibility of the narrative. I understand the point he’s making, but the execution feels too heavy-handed for my taste. You don’t have to lecture me on the necessity of fiction—I read it almost exclusively. However, no argument can convince me that repeatedly emphasizing how much of the story is embellished or fabricated, purely to elicit an emotional response, is a mark of good storytelling.