Crashing
Through and The Wild Trees
By Kenny Brechner
Few
people still believe that “children should be seen and not heard,” and even
fewer that “children should be heard but not seen.” The first case is
clearly not good thinking, and the second makes no sense if we apply it to
children. Rather than just leave a phrase lying by the wayside, we might do well
to try and apply it to the writing of narrative nonfiction. Let us come straight
out and say it then: The successful narrative – or topical nonfiction –
writer should be heard but not seen in his narrative.
One comes to feel that the greatest asset or liability of any topical nonfiction
account is its author. A good author can make any topic interesting, and a poor
author can spoil the most interesting topic. To consider our question, we’ll
look at the recent books of two well-established authors, Richard Preston, known
for his excellent The Hot Zone, and Robert Kurson, justly famed for Shadow
Divers. Preston and Kurson’s new books are both great reads on interesting
topics.
Preston’s new book, The Wild Trees, examines the Redwood Canopy in Northern
California, as well as its discoverers, explorers, and of course, the canopy
itself. Kurson’s Crashing Through is an account of the life of Mike May, a man
who was blinded in a chemical accident at age three, and whose sight was
ultimately restored at age 45. Both books are exceptionally well-written
accounts of uncharted territory, featuring compelling people and fascinating
science; both authors gained intimate access to their subjects and a solid
command of the relevant science. There is only one major and substantive
difference between these two narratives: in The Wild Trees, Preston, its author,
literally enters the story as a character two-thirds of the way through the
book; on the other hand, Kurson exemplifies the “heard but not seen”
nonfiction narrator in his account.
The fact that there is an amazingly diverse forest canopy hundreds of feet in
the air was unknown until recently, and Preston brings the lives and work of
pioneering scientists Steve Sillett and Maire Antoine, along with amateur
Redwood titan finder Michael Taylor, to life with a strong hand. The reader
feels the pull of their tight-knit, intriguing, and exclusive world – and
Preston clearly does, too, entering the story to interview Sillett for a
magazine piece. Shortly after, Preston is to be found slipping into Sillett’s
garage to draw a diagram of Sillet’s specialized climbing ropes, and then
training himself in the arborist climbing method used by Sillett. Subsequently,
he impresses Sillett with his hard-won climbing expertise and his exploration of
the forest canopy of Scotland, going on to become one of the team.
One is pleased that Preston had big experiences and made cool new friends, but
the narrative tension goes right out of The Wild Trees once Preston ceases to be
purely a narrator and simultaneously becomes a character. The effect is jarring
on many levels. The reader’s suspension of disbelief, well-earned by Preston
up until page 227, is abruptly lost. The reader quickly feels excluded from the
story as well, suddenly recast as an outsider looking in from a deliberately
obscure distance. Preston’s new role hopelessly compromises his narrative.
In Crashing Through, Kurson provides an intimate portrait of a remarkable man.
May’s decision to have a corneal transplant in one eye was a curious one. The
transplant was a new procedure with an unknown chance of success. Even if
successful, the limited case histories of individuals who had gained sight after
a lifetime of blindness suggested serious psychological perils, depression,
exhaustion, and difficulty with interpretation. Furthermore, strong immune
suppressants would need to be taken, making May vulnerable to cancer.
As a successful engineer and businessman, blind skiing champion, and builder of
an eighty-foot ham radio tower, May was an important member of the blind
community. He loved his life and felt that nothing was lacking, why take
enormous risks for the chance to see? In the end May chose to chance the
operation because it was an adventure, it was something he hadn’t done before.
Wrestling with the decision forced May to consider deeply who he was, and May
decided that he was above all an explorer, a risk taker. “Crashing though”
is May’s term for overcoming obstacles, a practice he has been engaging in his
entire life.
Crashing Through is at all times both intimate and tasteful. The detailed
account of May’s first conjugal experience with his wife after gaining sight,
for example, is at once highly detailed and extremely compelling. The reader
can’t help but pause a moment and wonder how Kurson pulled that off, how
anyone other than May could have written that section. Kurson’s narrative
builds steadily, and ends strongly. The science component of Crashing Through,
the neurological reasons for the crisis May encounters, his inability to
interpret faces, or see unexpected changes in dimension, such as stairs and
sidewalks, the mind-numbing weariness of sight for him, are fascinating. More
importantly, May’s triumph over these obstacles, his “crashing though,” is
truly inspiring.
There is a lot to be said for The Wild Trees, but its not the book it could have
been had Kurson stayed the course with his narrative. The rewards of a narrative
cannot be personal to their author. The Wild Trees is a worthwhile book, but
Crashing Through is exceptional.
