Tim O’Brien’s Presented by Dr. Judy Logan

“His jaw was in his throat, his upper lip and teeth were gone, his one eye was shut, his other eye was a star- shaped hole....” (118).

Scholar; Born 1946; NOT a Communist Citizen soldier; Patriot by TRADITION; ancestors fought Taught man’s highest duty is to defend land Told stories of heroes He ACCEPTED it; not open to question NOT a FIGHTER; secretly scared Liked BOOKS; Hoped to TEACH; couldn’t see self doing brave things Hoped he’d never have to fight Afraid of disgracing himself, his family, his village Avoided politics Stopped praying A Common rifleman, not an officer His life a constellation of possibilities Photo of young woman, ring. Fell in love. New wife. He’d been a soldier only one day. Knew he’d die quickly. See flash of light. Wake up in stories of his people.

Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because — Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like — just as I — Was out of work — had sold his traps — No other reason why. "Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown.” ~Thomas Hardy, 1902

Linda was nine then, as I was, but we were in love. And it was real. She had poise and great dignity. Her eyes were deep brown like her hair, and she was slender and very quiet and fragile-looking. (216)

True story of a British attempt to trick the enemy into weakening Sicily's defenses before the 1943 attack, using a dead man with faked papers.

It didn’t seem real. A mistake, I thought. The girl lying in the casket wasn’t Linda. I turned and glanced behind me…thinking that maybe it was a joke—hoping it was a joke—almost believing that Linda would jump out from behind one of the curtains and laugh and yell out my name. But she didn’t. The room was silent. (228-29)

“But when [I’m dead], it’s like... being inside a book that nobody’s reading.” “A book?” I said. “An old one. It’s up on a library shelf, so you’re safe and everything, but the book hasn’t been checked out for a long, long time. All you can do is wait. Just hope somebody’ll pick it up and start reading.” (232)

“Once, I remember, we went ice skating late at night, tracing loops and circles under yellow floodlights” (231).

“With stories, I’m skating over the surface of my own life. Young, happy, I will never die.”

A type of fiction that self- consciously addresses the devices of fiction, exposing the fictional illusion. Metafiction draws attention to itself as a work of art, while exposing the “truth” of a story. A story about a writer creating a story