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kylxx 's review for:
The Yellow Birds
by Kevin Powers
At the will of a good friend, I cracked this book open after finishing 369-paged Me Before You, this year's tear-jerking you-must-read-this-before-the-movie-comes-out romance novel, over a holiday weekend. The transition from that book to this one was uncomfortable, and it grew increasingly clear to me that this 226 page book cannot be devoured in three days like a box of Saltine crackers or a bag of your favorite chips, rather it must be savored, like an expensive cake or an exotic fruit-- something rich, and rare, and slightly detrimental to your personal well-being.
I work as a receptionist, and regular visitors keep up with my literary escapades as they come in and out, so having this book in front of me for a whole month really surprised people (I typically don't take longer than a week to polish something off). But I kept telling them that it would be worth it, and I tell you what, it was.
I was a virgin to the war novel genre, except for a high-school-level study of All Quiet on the Western Front and the first thirty pages of Slaughter House Five, so this novel was and remains a bit out of my depth, however I don't feel like I've ever had my perspective changed so much by a book in my life. I went into this expecting heroism, exasperated death soliloquy, and tearful sacrifices, but what I got was a candid and self-deprecating novel of survival. Kevin Powers connects the "chalk line" stories of Privates Bartle and Murphy in a way that reads like a classic novel (that is to say, there is something significant in every line if one looks hard enough), but tells a story that is relevant in today's social climate. I foresee this becoming required reading in the next few years.
My love for the characters grew silently; I did not know that it was there until they started falling apart. By the last few chapters I was so invested in each one that I found myself gasping at the mention of one's hypothetical suicide, flinching at their mistreatment, and crying at their destruction. So little goes right, so little is good-- it's such a hard reality to face, and yet it is reality for many soldiers.
Powers' style of writing is phenomenal. Each word in a sentence is selected carefully, not a single one's precise meaning is neglected. His manipulation of language can so vividly transcribe the emotions of the author to the reader that it's unsettling. His panics became my panics, his sorrow became my sorrow. Reading this book is like reading something very private, something that you're not supposed to see.
Briefly in the book, the protagonist (if one could call him that) Bartle talks about the hardest part of being a returned soldier is that people are constantly thanking him for his service, when in reality all he did was survive, and there was nothing glorious about that. That got me thinking. I've never really been one to celebrate war or war heroes, and yet I still feel inclined to thank the men and women I see dressed out in fatigues at the grocery store. It's no social construct I don't think, I do genuinely appreciate their service, but I had never dissected why. I think it's a common belief that when we say thanks, we are saying "Thank you for your bravery, thank you for defending us, thank you standing up for our country", but when I thought about that some more, I think what I am saying-- and what many others are saying-- is not thank you for your bravery in defending me, thank you for risking it all for me. Thank you for going through this for me. Because wars are going to be waged ("It was their idea," [Sterling] said. "Don't forget that. It's their idea every time. They ought to kill themselves instead of us." (42)) and soldiers will always be needed, so it's a thank you for being a sacrificial lamb. A common theme in this book is "glad it's you, not me", and that message eerily resonates with the reader the whole way through.
To summarize, this book was powerful and genuine, all the makings of classic that will be revered for time to come, and yet I have a bad taste in my mouth. I think it's supposed to be like that.
I work as a receptionist, and regular visitors keep up with my literary escapades as they come in and out, so having this book in front of me for a whole month really surprised people (I typically don't take longer than a week to polish something off). But I kept telling them that it would be worth it, and I tell you what, it was.
I was a virgin to the war novel genre, except for a high-school-level study of All Quiet on the Western Front and the first thirty pages of Slaughter House Five, so this novel was and remains a bit out of my depth, however I don't feel like I've ever had my perspective changed so much by a book in my life. I went into this expecting heroism, exasperated death soliloquy, and tearful sacrifices, but what I got was a candid and self-deprecating novel of survival. Kevin Powers connects the "chalk line" stories of Privates Bartle and Murphy in a way that reads like a classic novel (that is to say, there is something significant in every line if one looks hard enough), but tells a story that is relevant in today's social climate. I foresee this becoming required reading in the next few years.
My love for the characters grew silently; I did not know that it was there until they started falling apart. By the last few chapters I was so invested in each one that I found myself gasping at the mention of one's hypothetical suicide, flinching at their mistreatment, and crying at their destruction. So little goes right, so little is good-- it's such a hard reality to face, and yet it is reality for many soldiers.
Powers' style of writing is phenomenal. Each word in a sentence is selected carefully, not a single one's precise meaning is neglected. His manipulation of language can so vividly transcribe the emotions of the author to the reader that it's unsettling. His panics became my panics, his sorrow became my sorrow. Reading this book is like reading something very private, something that you're not supposed to see.
Briefly in the book, the protagonist (if one could call him that) Bartle talks about the hardest part of being a returned soldier is that people are constantly thanking him for his service, when in reality all he did was survive, and there was nothing glorious about that. That got me thinking. I've never really been one to celebrate war or war heroes, and yet I still feel inclined to thank the men and women I see dressed out in fatigues at the grocery store. It's no social construct I don't think, I do genuinely appreciate their service, but I had never dissected why. I think it's a common belief that when we say thanks, we are saying "Thank you for your bravery, thank you for defending us, thank you standing up for our country", but when I thought about that some more, I think what I am saying-- and what many others are saying-- is not thank you for your bravery in defending me, thank you for risking it all for me. Thank you for going through this for me. Because wars are going to be waged ("It was their idea," [Sterling] said. "Don't forget that. It's their idea every time. They ought to kill themselves instead of us." (42)) and soldiers will always be needed, so it's a thank you for being a sacrificial lamb. A common theme in this book is "glad it's you, not me", and that message eerily resonates with the reader the whole way through.
To summarize, this book was powerful and genuine, all the makings of classic that will be revered for time to come, and yet I have a bad taste in my mouth. I think it's supposed to be like that.