I can honestly say, first of all, that The Things They Carried has been one of the most influential and incredible books I have read in my life. I'm not sure if it's because of How to Read Literature Like a Professor, by Tom Foster, or just the beauty of the book itself, but all of a sudden, I get it. I get literature. (Finally.)
As a writer, I've often wondered how writers place symbolism in their books. Like, did Fitzgerald just wake up one morning and say to himself, "Hm. I think green lights represent the American dream. Interesting."? In some ways, it used to seem ridiculous how much we read into novels, searching for some sort of deeper meaning or symbolism; in fact, I'm always reminded of that one middle school meme:
And then, The Things They Carried changed all that.
All of a sudden, I find myself wanting to write with symbolism. In all my years as a budding author, I've always thought my only goal was to convey a story. But now, I realize that literature can be so much more than a simple tale; literature is political, literature is world-shaking, literature is change.
Maybe it's because I relate to Tim O'Brien as a character, or maybe it's because the Vietnam War is something so alien and unfamiliar to me, or maybe it's a combination of both -- but I feel strangely drawn to this book. It's just so different and so familiar at the same time. On one hand, I understand O'Brien's struggle: submission or rebellion, going with the flow or breaking free? I connect with the worries of the young soldiers, the way they try to push down their inner fear and insecurities, the way they use bravado and humor to cover up their true feelings. But in the same way, I'm not going to say that I will ever be able to truly understand them. I haven't ever even held a gun, let alone killed someone, and their setting of the jungles of Vietnam are worlds away from the concrete forest of Consol.
But going further than that, the writing style of the book itself is totally foreign to me. I originally read it as a work of nonfiction, until I realized that O'Brien didn't have a daughter, lived nowhere near the Canadian border, and is a tricky, tricky lil man. And strangely enough, I don't even care. The book's mix of fiction and fact doesn't lessen its impact; if anything, it strengthens it, especially with the running thread of story-truth and happening-truth throughout the book. This theme, perhaps because it's the first time I've actually seen it in literature or, honestly, considered it at all, really touched me. I'll admit, I embellish stories all the time just to portray the emotions I was experiencing. Does that necessarily make me a liar?
O'Brien says no. In a way, I agree with him. Of course you should just, like, make up random stories in your day-to-day life, but isn't all fiction lies? Isn't every single fictional book you've ever read technically a lie? So the only difference between The Things They Carried and every other piece of literature is that The Things They Carried makes you truly believe in the characters. It truly makes you care about the characters. After all, what's more real about a character than he or she actually being a living human being? And although The Things They Carried might trick you into believing its stories are real, I actually don't feel cheated at all.
I'd like to end with a cheesy, yet true, statement. At the beginning of The Things They Carried, O'Brien describes the physical and emotional things the soldiers carried, whether that be pictures, good-luck charms, or fear.
And I can say now, without a doubt, that I will always carry with me what I've learned from The Things They Carried.