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I had to read two books and do some essays and a project for summer homework. I chose the project for The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien of drawing five pictures of five different scenes. I'm only posting three, though, because the other two were done more last minute and I'm not very proud of them.
"'It's not right,' he said. 'These pictures in my head, they won't quit. I'll see a guy's liver. The actual fucking liver. And the thing is, it doesn't scare me, it doesn't even give me the willlies. More like curiosity. The way a doctor feels when he looks at a patient, sort of mechanical, not seeing the real person, just a ruptured appendix or a clogged-up artery.'
His voice floated away for a second. He looked at Sanders and tried to smile.
He kept clawing at his elbow.
'Anyway,' Rat said, 'the days aren't so bad, but at night the pictures get to be a bitch. I start seeing my own body. Chunk of myself. My own heart, my own kidneys. It's like - I don't know - it's like staring into this huge black crystal ball. One of these nights I'll be lying dead out there in the dark and nobody'll find me except the bugs - I can see it - I can see the goddamn bugs chewing tunnels through me - I can see the mongooses munching on my bones. I swear, it's too much. I can't keep seeing myself dead.'
Mitchell Sanders nodded. He didn't know what to say. For a time they sat watching the shadows come, then Rat shook his head.
He said he'd done his best. He'd tried to be a decent medic. Win some and lose some, he said, but he'd tried hard. Briefly then, rambling a little, he talked about a few of the guys who were gone now, Curt Lemon and Kiowa and Ted Lavender, and how crazy it was that people who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.
Then he almost laughed.
'This whole war,' he said. 'You know what it is? Just one big banquet. Meat, man. You and me. Everybody. Meat for the bugs.'
The next morning he shot himself.
He took off his boots and socks, laid out his medical kit, doped himself up, and put a round through his foot.
Nobody blamed him, Sanders said."
The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien
pg.211-212
"'It's not right,' he said. 'These pictures in my head, they won't quit. I'll see a guy's liver. The actual fucking liver. And the thing is, it doesn't scare me, it doesn't even give me the willlies. More like curiosity. The way a doctor feels when he looks at a patient, sort of mechanical, not seeing the real person, just a ruptured appendix or a clogged-up artery.'
His voice floated away for a second. He looked at Sanders and tried to smile.
He kept clawing at his elbow.
'Anyway,' Rat said, 'the days aren't so bad, but at night the pictures get to be a bitch. I start seeing my own body. Chunk of myself. My own heart, my own kidneys. It's like - I don't know - it's like staring into this huge black crystal ball. One of these nights I'll be lying dead out there in the dark and nobody'll find me except the bugs - I can see it - I can see the goddamn bugs chewing tunnels through me - I can see the mongooses munching on my bones. I swear, it's too much. I can't keep seeing myself dead.'
Mitchell Sanders nodded. He didn't know what to say. For a time they sat watching the shadows come, then Rat shook his head.
He said he'd done his best. He'd tried to be a decent medic. Win some and lose some, he said, but he'd tried hard. Briefly then, rambling a little, he talked about a few of the guys who were gone now, Curt Lemon and Kiowa and Ted Lavender, and how crazy it was that people who were so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.
Then he almost laughed.
'This whole war,' he said. 'You know what it is? Just one big banquet. Meat, man. You and me. Everybody. Meat for the bugs.'
The next morning he shot himself.
He took off his boots and socks, laid out his medical kit, doped himself up, and put a round through his foot.
Nobody blamed him, Sanders said."
The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien
pg.211-212
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612x792px 460.98 KB
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and again: wow...