Scars, Bloody Wounds, Aches and Joys: THE AMERICAN

The American, by Jeffrey Thomas.
Journalstone, 2020.

An honest review should balance the merits of a book against any weaknesses. Here, the weaknesses are almost buried by the power of the story and the fascination of the characters. Any book that keeps me turning the pages until five o'clock in the morning deserves my full attention; any book that shocks me and moves me in scene after scene deserves all the praise I can bring to it.

Let me start with praise.

At one point in the book, a thoroughly despicable character tries to justify his own evils:

"[He] had read somewhere that 4% of the population (in the US…or was it worldwide?) were sociopaths. That 1% were psychopaths. He wasn’t clear on the difference, but it was food for thought. It wasn’t an anomaly, he thought. It was a trend.

"In the past, human beings had relied on close groups to ensure their survival against the rigors of nature. Of nature’s harsh elements, of nature’s predatory -- or at least, competitive -- animals. Nature had required that humans bond together, create tribes, societies, cities and nations (and of course, the resultant aberrations of religions and political parties).

"But…wasn’t humanity beyond all that now? Survival was more assured, taken for granted. And hence: the evolution of a superior human. No longer inhibited by the bond to a tribe. A human freed of fearful loyalties, except the loyalty to oneself. To one’s own needs and urges."

In a modern world where the values of the marketplace have stamped out the values of human communities, this philosophy might carry weight, but in The American, Jeffrey Thomas brings out the necessity for bonds of family and friendship. Even in cities where murders are currency, where cold killings become tools of business, people still matter; they hang on, they work together to keep the world in one piece.

This focus on human compassion takes the book in directions that I had not anticipated. Against the temptation of a thriller to keep the plot simple, Thomas has chosen, instead, to emphasize meaning and a personal perspective. The horror of this book is undeniable, but so is the humanity; chapters that show the worst of human actions alternate with scenes of people at their best.

Thomas writes with a keen eye for landscapes -- not physical landscapes, but social. He knows how people interact in bars and offices, theme parks and morgues; he understands the ways in which families and friendships fall apart, and then come together again; he feels, in his gut, how the past can wound, and how -- unexpectedly, without warning -- the present can heal. This might sound abstract, but his approach to the story is relentlessly physical: pain and loss, community and reconcilation, are things that we can touch in this book. Thomas never shies away when a bullet shatters through an eye socket, but he also finds comfort in cold beer and hot soup, in Buddhist temples and christmas lights, in the stop-and-start exhilaration of high-speed motorcycles on jam-packed streets. Scars, bloody wounds, aches and joys, all come to life on the page.

Now for the criticism.

I suspect that most readers will have no trouble with the book's prose. Thomas knows what to say, and often writes with eloquence:

"[He] came to a glass-walled office in which Evelyn was housed behind her desk like a museum specimen representing her species."

"Vietnam was full to the brim with beautiful women -- who knew better than Chen, who made his livelihood off that beauty in all its hunger and desperation? -- but this woman’s beauty was transcendent in a way that was hard to put a finger on. She emanated a deep, unarticulated misery that spoke of classical drama, beyond the scope of one person’s paltry life; a misery of the whole of human existence, no doubt beyond her own capacity for understanding. She was a mute and uncomprehending vessel of that suffering, like a small child with terminal cancer."

Elsewhere, just frequently enough to be noticed, the prose trips on itself, but seems not so much badly written as badly proof-read.

For example, in certain passages, when present participles gum up the prose and choke out the simple past tense, results precede actions:

"He slung her off him, grabbing hold of her tank top to do so."

"'Indeed,' the American said, his laughter dying away."

"Thanh asked about their father, deciding to change the subject."

"Trenor couldn’t help but chuckle, finding it funny that here they were both amused now over the subject of Quan’s father’s demise."

Subjects and objects fade into obscurity:

"The madam’s laughter died away quickly, her expression darkening, but she knew better than to give in to her anger with this man."

"The bloody garment tore away in his hands, leaving her thudding onto her back."

"He didn’t return the eye patch to his head, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket."

"He nodded at Quan’s wallet, which he was just returning to a pocket in his fatigues."

When sentences break into fragments, they lose immediate clarity:

"Closer now, entering into another thrown pool of light."

Tacked-on qualifications intrude:

"Her eyes remained staring from her mask of blood, however."

Sometimes, the viewpoint characters alternate within a scene; this feels like having a door slammed on your face while a secret panel drops open at your feet.

A fast reader might skip over these flaws, a captivated reader might glance at them in passing, but I read slowly, for pleasure; I could feel these potholes jar the bones of my feet. In a book so compelling and so clear with its intentions, written by someone so obviously thoughtful, these flaws represent a failure to revise.

They might have crippled a lesser book, but this one kept me reading beyond every speedbump of language and technique. Its characters made me fear and hope for them; its narrative made me think about my own losses and my own moments of community. I can ask many things of a book, but above all, I want the book to seem alive. The American lives.