Bumping to five stars as the book seems richer with the passing of time.
I thought Nunez became one of America's more important writers with The Last of Her Kind. This is, I think, an earlier novel, but it doesn't weaken her position, IMO. :) It won't appeal to everyone's taste--you have to like quiet, reflective books. Certainly many great novels have adopted similar ruminative tones, and many of them have been by and about men. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel that some of the dings for this book's calm approach to what might have been a very tumultuous story arise from the fact that this is a woman's book.
There are a lot of Vietnam books at this point, and I almost wonder what's to be added to the story, but here's a side we haven't heard much of. This is a novel about a combat nurse. No one knows, the narrator tells us, exactly how many women served in this role during the Vietnam war. It's a different perspective, though, because:
"The guys' hearts weren't in the war, everyone knows that, that was part of the tragedy and why we lost. But the nurses? Me? I gave them all the heart I had."
I cried when this novel ended. Not because of any particular moment, but because of the cumulation of its moments. So quietly given. The narrator, a guarded, perhaps cynical writer, only reluctantly opens herself to Rouenna and her story. After all, so many people contact writers and want them to write *their* life story, and why not, the narrator says? Everyone's had a life. Nearly every life is probably worth narrating. But of course narrating everyone else's lives is not necessarily what writers want to do.
Until, in this case, she does.
It's supposed to be against the rules to write about being a writer, and to write about writing. Writers are supposed to find something else to describe, some kind of "real job." But this book is interesting precisely because we actually do see how this particular writer, this narrator, does go about the real job of writing. How she constructs this book about Rouenna. How she gets drawn in, how her writerly curiosity is awakened, what it is about her personality that makes her a writer, as apart from many in her artistic community who might have dismissed this Rouenna for her obesity, her lack of education and sophistication, her unassuming first-generation immigrant-ness, her unapolegetic old-maid-ness, her frilly decorating tastes. When she's not with Rouenna, the narrator runs with the growing Brooklyn ex-pat artiste community, a group of people so implausibly fashionable, sophisticated, intellectual, sleek, and snarky. Rouenna can't stand them; she says they must have trust funds. The narrator reflects that yes, it does seem odd that signs of artistic struggle "remain miraculously hidden," despite the fact that the times for artists are harder than ever. How does it work? "The clothes, the hair, the lofts..., the almost nightly dining out, the yoga and tai chi classes, the therapy. The freedom--time and money to travel, to visit Berlin or Rome for a month, to spend two months at an art colony--how do they do it?"
The narrator herself must be in the same situation. She takes occasional part-time teaching jobs, and she has a previous book out, but it doesn't sound like a best-seller. She too remains mum about how she does it. (I had the same complaint--virtually my only one--about The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P and How Should A Person Be?, where these writers and artists and intellectuals had no visible means of support, other than some freelance work. Even freelance writing for big software companies doesn't earn you the lifestyles described.)
But the narrator does show you how she works on her writing. And that's very interesting.
For everyone who's ever asked (and there are kabillions of these people, god knows why) a writer: Where do you get your ideas... this book will tell you.
I found that the book's tone was so even I didn't highlight a lot of things. I just kind of sat back and went.
But there was this:
"A speaker at a rally told the crowd, 'If you want to know why things like My Lai happen, just go out there and pick ten men at random and ask them whether they have ever in their lives tortured or killed a helpless animal just for fun.'
"I knew this was rhetoric. I didn't have to do as the speaker said to get the point she was trying to make. But curiosity got the better of me.
"'It was just a turtle.'
"'Do bullfrogs count?'
"'Of course. I'm a hunter.'
"'See, my brother caught this mouse...'"
Rouenna, who never has any use for complainers, even those w PTSD, and who argues that dioxin poisoning (from Agent Orange and similar) may be the cause of a lot of what we think is PTSD, and who probably suffered from dioxin poisoning herself, though she could never get any doctors to take her symptoms seriously, says this very striking thing about her experience in Vietnam:
"I got no reason to be jealous of anyone in this world. I figure I had something in this life no one will ever have. In one year I think I lived more than most people do even if they live to be a hundred. And all you got to do is think about how things turned out, look at how people think about the past today. Everyone knows that for our generation Vietnam was the big event. Not seeing the Beatles... or being at Woodstock or the Summer of Love. ... It wasn't about how long you could grow your hair or how much acid you could eat and still keep your brain. All of that seems so diddly-squat now, now, doesn't?" Yeah. "But not Vietnam. Vietnam changed this country forever. It was the biggest thing that happened to us, and some of us were actually there. And then you have to think about my own special case--I mean, how many women got to go to Nam?"
"Oh, I tell you, it was something. People have no idea. Yeah, it was hell, it was crazy, it was worse than my worst fears told me it was going to be, and I was blessed to be part of it. That's how I've always seen it and how I still see it, that won't change. And I don't have to be talking about it all the time, I don't have to tell the whole world about it. I don't need a memorial or a parade... I just want to hold on to some of those memories. I don't ever want to forget how much love I felt and how happy I was then. People don't understand that, but people just have no idea. If they did, they'd be the ones who'd be jealous--of me. *I was there.*"
"Once, after she had been talking about the war at some length, she startled me by saying: 'Oh I just wish that you could have been there, too.' And then, more vehemently, in a way that moved me almost to tears: 'If only we could have been there together!"
Because that's just it. Even if, as Rouenna says, she doesn't need to be talking about this all the time, it's a lot to carry in her own self. The camaraderie she felt back there is gone, the troops and the medics rotated in and out at all different times, everyone lost touch. Many have died from diseases related to Agent Orange. Rouenna herself has lost many of the memories she so cherishes due to "black holes," a symptom of dioxin poisoning.
No one wanted to hear about Vietnam when she came back. At first she wanted to talk about it, then she didn't, then she did. But who is there to hear? Who would understand that it was the best year of her life? In that year, this relatively uneducated woman, never near the top of her class even in nursing school, learned more about medicine than most doctors or nurses are ever exposed to. She was more than competent; she excelled. She made decisions on the fly. When she returned, even as a nurse, her experience wasn't seen as relevant. No one even asked her what she knew. She was expected to follow orders from people who knew less than she did.
How often has this been the experience of a veteran? They've shone in combat, experienced a kind of intensity that can never be repeated. And then no one even considers where they've been and what they might know as a result.
And what might happen if what Rouenna articulates, above, about the power and beauty of her experience could be owned out loud by more veterans?
I think this is a very important and universal novel, indeed.