Very infrequently do I find myself showing little compassion for the protagonist of a story, or even the antagonist. I kind of liked being thrown off guard with this one. I felt strange reading Bullet in the Brain by Tobias Wolff, mostly because it was concerning to me that I felt no compassion or pity or anything for Anders, from the moment he walked through the door of the bank all the way until the bullet hit him. Even through the beginnings of describing the moments he didn't see flashing before his eyes, my feelings were minimal and simple. But as it went on, things changed.
I believe that the things that aren't said, shown, or suggested are the things that matter most. The arguments an essayist doesn't discuss speaks volumes of their character if you're paying enough attention. Perhaps that is why I liked reading about all the things Anders didn't think of as he died. Those moments, lining up an Anders that the author didn't show us, a less jaded and critical Anders, made the piece for me, as I believe it was intended to.
Approaching the moment he did think of, I started to feel something different. I felt the regret I thought Anders should be feeling, a wish to take it all back and try again. I felt some sorrow that he had been living, but not truly living, becoming just a hollow shell of the character he once had been. The shift in my emotions still left me with no pity for Anders at the time of his death. But perhaps it was because it seemed to me that Anders had died a long time before, but was still somehow breathing.
I believe that the things that aren't said, shown, or suggested are the things that matter most. The arguments an essayist doesn't discuss speaks volumes of their character if you're paying enough attention. Perhaps that is why I liked reading about all the things Anders didn't think of as he died. Those moments, lining up an Anders that the author didn't show us, a less jaded and critical Anders, made the piece for me, as I believe it was intended to.
Approaching the moment he did think of, I started to feel something different. I felt the regret I thought Anders should be feeling, a wish to take it all back and try again. I felt some sorrow that he had been living, but not truly living, becoming just a hollow shell of the character he once had been. The shift in my emotions still left me with no pity for Anders at the time of his death. But perhaps it was because it seemed to me that Anders had died a long time before, but was still somehow breathing.
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