Within a Sky Full of Earth

It happened last November, Denis Johnson was the winner for Fiction of the National Book Award (NBA) of the United States of America, the prize was given to Tree of Smoke, an epic novel of bungled espionage and small mercies in the Vietnam era. We give you a highlight of the ceremony and the connection to the author's information as well as an excerpt from the book.
Denis Johnson was born in 1949 in Munich, Germany, and raised in Tokyo, Manila, and Washington. He has received many awards for his work, including a Lannan Fellowship in Fiction and a Whiting Writer’s Award. He has published several books, including Seek: Reports from the Edges of America and Beyond (2001), The Name of the World (2000), Already Dead: A California Gothic (1997), Jesus’ Son (1992), Resuscitation of a Hanged Man (1991), The Stars at Noon (1986), Fiskadoro (1985), and Angels (1983). His works of poetry include The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly: Poems, Collected and New (1995), The Veil (1987), and The Incognito Lounge (1982).

EXCERPT
Last night at 3:00 a.m. President Kennedy had been killed. Seaman Houston and the other two recruits slept while the first reports traveled around the world. There was one small nightspot on the island, a dilapidated club with big revolving fans in the ceiling and one bar and one pinball game; the two marines who ran the club had come by to wake them up and tell them what had happened to the President. The two marines sat with the three sailors on the bunks in the Quonset hut for transient enlisted men, watching the air conditioner drip water into a coffee can and drinking beer. The Armed Forces Network from Subic Bay stayed on through the night, broadcasting bulletins about the unfathomable murder.

Now it was late in the morning, and Seaman Apprentice William Houston, Jr., began feeling sober again as he stalked the jungle of Grande Island carrying a borrowed .22-caliber rifle. There were supposed to be some wild boars roaming this island military resort, which was all he had seen so far of the Philippines. He didn't know how he felt about this country. He just wanted to do some hunting in the jungle. There were supposed to be some wild boars around here.

He stepped carefully, thinking about snakes and trying to be quiet because he wanted to hear any boars before they charged him. He was aware that he was terrifically on edge. From all around came the ten thousand sounds of the jungle, as well as the cries of gulls and the far-off surf, and if he stopped dead and listened a minute, he could hear also the pulse snickering in the heat of his flesh, and the creak of sweat in his ears. If he stayed motionless only another couple of seconds, the bugs found him and whined around his head.

He propped the rifle against a stunted banana plant and removed his headband and wrung it out and wiped his face and stood there awhile, waving away the mosquitoes with the cloth and itching his crotch absent-mindedly. Nearby, a seagull seemed to be carrying on an argument with itself, a series of protesting squeaks interrupted by contradictory lower-pitched cries that sounded like, Huh! Huh! Huh! And something moving from one tree to another caught Seaman Houston's eye.
He kept his vision on the spot where he'd seen it among the branches of a rubber tree, putting his hand out for the rifle without altering the direction of his gaze. It moved again. Now he saw that it was some sort of monkey, not much bigger than a Chihuahua dog. Not precisely a wild boar, but it presented itself as something to be looked at, clinging by its left hand and both feet to the tree's trunk and digging at the thin rind with an air of tiny, exasperated haste. Seaman Houston took the monkey's meager back under the rifle's sight. He raised the barrel a few degrees and took the monkey's head into the sight. Without really thinking about anything at all, he squeezed the trigger.

The monkey flattened itself out against the tree, spreading its arms and legs enthusiastically, and then, reaching around with both hands as if trying to scratch its back, it tumbled down to the ground. Seaman Houston was terrified to witness its convulsions there. It hoisted itself, pushing off the ground with one arm, and sat back against the tree trunk with its legs spread out before it, like somebody resting from a difficult job of labor.

Seaman Houston took himself a few steps nearer, and, from the distance of only a few yards, he saw that the monkey's fur was very shiny and held a henna tint in the shadows and a blond tint in the light, as the leaves moved above it. It looked from side to side, its breath coming in great rapid gulps, its belly expanding tremendously with every breath like a balloon. The shot had been low, exiting from the abdomen.

Seaman Houston felt his own stomach tear itself in two. "Jesus Christ!" he shouted at the monkey, as if it might do something about its embarrassing and hateful condition. He thought his head would explode, if the forenoon kept burning into the jungle all around him and the gulls kept screaming and the monkey kept regarding its surroundings carefully, moving its head and black eyes from side to side like someone following the progress of some kind of conversation, some kind of debate, some kind of struggle that the jungle—the morning—the moment—was having with itself. Seaman Houston walked over to the monkey and laid the rifle down beside it and lifted the animal up in his two hands, holding its buttocks in one and cradling its head with the other. With fascination, then with revulsion, he realized that the monkey was crying. Its breath came out in sobs, and tears welled out of its eyes when it blinked. It looked here and there, appearing no more interested in him than in anything else it might be seeing. "Hey," Houston said, but the monkey didn't seem to hear.
[Copyright © 2007 by Denis Johnson]

B. R. Myers, contributing editor of The Atlantic magazine, didn't praise the book as the other critics who stood up for the prize and its general acceptance among literary circle as well as the common readers. The selected members of the NBA jury don't give such space for flaws, who are a group of well known writers, editors, publishers and literature lecturers, well qualified to judge the work of Denis Johnson. Myers jokes of Johnson usage of words and sees "no reason to consider him a great or even a good writer". What we can say is that a great book always calls for different and contradictory opinions. What you should do is check for yourself.

• THE CEREMONY [a slice of BLOOM TV]
• THE AUTHOR [on WIKIPEDIA]
• THE BOOK [a from the PUBLISHER]
• THE ARTICLE ["A Bright Shinning Lie", B. R. Myers at THE ATLANTIC]

Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson
Published in September 2007 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux • SOON AVAILABLE AT BLOOM