Clean prose.

In Novella class, we just discussed Hiroshima by Hersey, which appreared in the New Yorker in 1946. When it came out, "Hiroshima" took over the entire issue, there were no articles or cartoons. It sold out within hours. Hershey follows 6 survivors of Hiroshima and writes in an old-world literary journalism- not gonzo, or pretentious. It's not a long read, but it still takes a while time to get through. By page 20, I was bawling. You know the stage of crying when you lose control of your bodily functions, and express your sentiments in infant whines and moans? That.

After reading it... I've never felt more guilt of being an American. For the earlier atrocities (Middle Passage, genocide of Native Americans, slavery, imperialism), my family wasn't here. But in WWII, my grandfather was in uniform, an immigrant proud to fight for his new home. He was one of the first men to land in Osaka after the Japanese surrender. Grandpa believed he would have died without the bomb.

As I read, I kept thinking, "We all deserve to burn in hell." The discussion was excellent.

---