Donald Anderson
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“Aftermath surprised me like a full clip of bullets
straight to the heart. Donald Anderson, director of
creative writing at the U.S. Air Force Academy (of all
places) has managed to assemble some of our
Vietnam generation’s finest writers—James Park
Sloan, Tobias Wolff, Maxine Kumin, Louise Erdrich, to
name a few—in one fast-moving literary platoon.
This is not blood and guts stuff, just guts, writing
attacking America’s postwar torpor with insight and
great wit. Anybody who turns his nose up at this
stuff deserves the country he’s got.”
—Jeff Stein, The Washington Post
straight to the heart. Donald Anderson, director of
creative writing at the U.S. Air Force Academy (of all
places) has managed to assemble some of our
Vietnam generation’s finest writers—James Park
Sloan, Tobias Wolff, Maxine Kumin, Louise Erdrich, to
name a few—in one fast-moving literary platoon.
This is not blood and guts stuff, just guts, writing
attacking America’s postwar torpor with insight and
great wit. Anybody who turns his nose up at this
stuff deserves the country he’s got.”
—Jeff Stein, The Washington Post
All the time I was enrolled in ROTC, I believed I
had, in an acceptable way, dodged war. But when
I received my first ROTC check ($100 a month), I
felt bothered enough to donate the sum to the
American Red Cross. But I needed the money, so
after giving away the first check, I began to keep
them. I did, though, donate blood every six
weeks or so when the Red Cross set up to collect
in the gym. All-Service ROTC classrooms were
housed in the same building as the gym, and
everyone knew the blood collected was being
shipped to Southeast Asia. I donated the blood
(drank the Tang, ate the Oreos), and tried not to
chafe at the Marine ROTC midshipmen who would
arrive in noisy squads, an enthusiastic
arrangement which allowed for competition as to
which midshipman could fill his blood bag soonest.
These embryo Marines brought handballs to
squeeze and clipboards and charts and
stopwatches. I worried for the Marine midshipmen
then, as I would worry for them now: they could
hardly wait to give blood.
—from “Confessions of a Noncombatant,”
an introduction by Donald Anderson
had, in an acceptable way, dodged war. But when
I received my first ROTC check ($100 a month), I
felt bothered enough to donate the sum to the
American Red Cross. But I needed the money, so
after giving away the first check, I began to keep
them. I did, though, donate blood every six
weeks or so when the Red Cross set up to collect
in the gym. All-Service ROTC classrooms were
housed in the same building as the gym, and
everyone knew the blood collected was being
shipped to Southeast Asia. I donated the blood
(drank the Tang, ate the Oreos), and tried not to
chafe at the Marine ROTC midshipmen who would
arrive in noisy squads, an enthusiastic
arrangement which allowed for competition as to
which midshipman could fill his blood bag soonest.
These embryo Marines brought handballs to
squeeze and clipboards and charts and
stopwatches. I worried for the Marine midshipmen
then, as I would worry for them now: they could
hardly wait to give blood.
—from “Confessions of a Noncombatant,”
an introduction by Donald Anderson
“It is not work of art to make order.
This is a widely held misunderstanding.
No, it is the work of art to complicate
order in just such a way that it begins to
resemble living.”
This is a widely held misunderstanding.
No, it is the work of art to complicate
order in just such a way that it begins to
resemble living.”