In reflections on war there are feelings of incomprehension and anger. There is also valor and pride. But most of all, there is silence. 

Author Tim O'Brien has devoted his career to breaking the speech barrier. In 1979, he received critical acclaim with his first book, Going after Cacciato, which confronted the atrocities of the Vietnam War. In 2005, O'Brien's eighth novel, The Things They Carried, was named by the New York Times as one of the 20 best books of the last quarter-century.

On Jan. 24, he was invited by the Stanford Humanities Center to discuss the relationship between writing and war at the annual Raymond Fred West Memorial Lecture. With frank honesty, he conversed with fellow veteran, the author Tobias Wolff, on his experiences in Vietnam. The event was the latest in a yearlong exploration of Ethics and War at Stanford University.

O'Brien said he was a reluctant soldier who went to Vietnam "kicking and screaming." Lacking a gung-ho sense of adventure, he thoroughly resented deferring graduate studies at Harvard. He informed the audience about his reasons for vocally opposing the war.

Drafted involuntarily, O'Brien said he was terrified of dying. "I'm still not excited about the prospect," he admitted with a wry smile. Fundamentally unsuited to the daily realities of war, he remembered hating the bugs, the dirt, and the hypocrisy of saluting superiors he considered mentally inferior.

In the midst of combat, O'Brien experienced the depths of suffering and the terrible complicity of man. Memories from the foxholes in Vietnam are hazy and incomplete. "All I recall is a generalized sense of chaos." For the young soldier, there was no gallantry in death. "I put my rifle up and shot him," O'Brien remembered, "just to make him go away."

In life after war, the author tried to make sense of it all by meditating on what it means to be human. His conclusion? "Human beings, unlike gophers and chipmunks, are aware of tragedy." O'Brien said he felt the public needed to be made aware of the corruption in Vietnam. His deep resentment that he was sent to this dark place morphed into a fury that infected his dreams and daily thoughts.

In his writing, O'Brien found a way to "humanize the experience of ugliness" through the rhythm and beauty of language. Celebrated for brazenly casting aside the conventions of the American war novel, he exposed the nasty and naked realities of combat. "I wanted to pull back the veil and show the horrors of it all."

Wolff and O'Brien have not forgotten the defiant protests of the organized anti-war movement. In those days, they said, the thirst for information was paramount. Wolff explained that in the days of Vietnam, with the draft looming, the "burden of service is no longer placed on the few." Young Americans provoked government to answer simple questions: 'What are the reasons for war?' 'Is this violence justifiable?'"

O'Brien recalled a recent interview with a grievously wounded soldier. On questioning the veteran whether his suffering was worth it, he was met by a hasty and assured response: "It was my duty."

O'Brien said his belief in the soldier's rectitude was tempered by a lingering fear that this generation is too compliant. The majority of Americans supported a war in Iraq that is becoming increasingly difficult to justify. O'Brien inquired why there are not more discussions about the fact that there were no weapons of mass destruction. "This wasn't a reason for going to war; it was the reason!" He said with a sigh: "In our age that would have broken hearts -- it would have been like Pearl Harbor hadn't happened."

O'Brien is still grappling with uncertainty. He recounted the story of how his five-year-old son considered whether he should urinate on a wire-rimmed waste paper basket -- "One voice said that daddy would not like this, the other that this is going to be fun!" -- to provide a parallel that explored the duality of the human mind.

Feeling guilty for loudly remonstrating the young boy for taking the low road, O'Brien weaved a bedtime story about a man with "two heads." O'Brien, the reluctant soldier, is that man with two heads. He explained to his boys that at times in their lives they would feel conflicted about everything from armed conflict to spaghetti.

For this reason, O'Brien reserved the most ardent criticism for the moral absolutists. "Violence is born out of absolutism," he said. He asked the audience whether intransigent war hawks would view death as "right" or "wrong" if their sons and daughters had lost their lives.

The authors left the audience with a strong message that the decision to go to war should not be taken lightly. American soldiers returning home with missing limbs and jaded hearts serve as a reminder that war is not an overseas phenomenon. "If the wolf is not at the door," Wolff warned, "it will be pushed out of our consciousness." 

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