A few days ago, I was getting on a plane for Burlington, Vermont and I had the depressing realization that the novel I was carrying was the same one I had carried on two prior airplane trips stretching back to October 11. Now the book, Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke, is 600+ pages, but it's actually a very fast and fun read and would be consumed in great lusty bites if I weren't so totally distracted. Today, I'm gonna finish that sucker.
I'm being rewarded with wonderful prose, like this snippet. In the story, it is the musings of a conflicted CIA agent in Vietnam in 1968. It could just as easily be retitled "A Scientist's Prayer"
Right at the heart of my ability to grasp the truth, I want to be paralyzed
