Today at Free Range, Susan Orlean points to John Hersey’s “Hiroshima,” a breathtaking combination of reporting and prose that stands as one of the primary sources in English about the shocking destruction wrought by the atomic bomb. The article first appeared in the August 31, 1946, issue of The New Yorker, and was introduced to readers by a note from the editors in a small box at the bottom of the first page:
The New Yorker this week devotes its entire editorial space to an article on the almost complete obliteration of a city by one atomic bomb, and what happened to the people of that city. It does so in the conviction that few of us have yet comprehended the all but incredible destructive power of this weapon, and that everyone might well take time to consider the terrible implications of its use.
A little more than a half-century later, Japan is once again at the center of the world’s attention, and, once again, along with the unthinkable destruction it has suffered, it is the perils of nuclear energy that have come to the fore. The political and, more important, moral issues at stake are markedly different. And there are dangers in comparing these two very different events. Yet Hersey’s reporting, along with his deep and wide compassion, is as valuable as ever, and can offer perspective—if only because it reminds us that global events should be focussed, when we can muster our best kind of energy, on the individual.
Hersey’s article may have been the first comprehensive first-hand account that many Americans read about the darker implications of V-J Day. (Roger Angell and Murray Sayle reflected on the legacy of “Hiroshima” fifty years later.) Since Friday, we’ve had access to the age’s full range of digital content: images, videos, audio, and a rush of information from social-media sites. We’ve been able to watch hundreds of videos of the earth engaged in its terrifying sway. Yet we’ve also been reminded of the power of plain language, and of prose. Today the Times printed a short essay by the Japanese novelist Kazumi Saeki, who was in Sendai during the earthquake. Saeki recalls the first night of darkness after the tsunami, and the morning that followed:
We lacked both water and gas, and our only illumination that night came from candles and the moon. With the lights of the city extinguished, stars shone brightly in the night sky. When I looked out toward the ocean the next morning, I saw in horror that neighborhoods close to the sea had simply vanished. Many of our friends lived in those areas. In the distance, I could see only the trees planted to protect the shore.
A stand of trees, vigilant but useless, while all else—people, homes, lives—had washed away; it is an image as unforgettable as any we have yet seen.