“The battle line between good and evil runs through the heart of every man,” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once wrote. Nowhere do we witness this eternal struggle more movingly than in Hiroshima, John Hersey’s unforgettable account of that fateful day on August 6th, 1945 when the atomic bomb was dropped. Hailed as the “most celebrated piece of journalism to come out of WWII,” Hiroshima follows six survivors as they navigate the devastating aftermath of nuclear war. Obliterating 100,000 lives in an infernal blast that will reverberate through the centuries as human history’s “most unspeakable crime,” the atom bomb is an unsettling reminder that the human heart is neither wholly good nor evil.
Hiroshima stands as a masterpiece of reporting for its ability to humanize the Japanese people at a time when words were weaponized as instruments of war. Rather than reduce them to a one-dimensional demonized “enemy,” Hersey revealed Dr. Masakazu Fujii, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, Father Wilhem Kliensorge, Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto, Toshiko Sasaki, and Hatsuyo Nakamura as ordinary people: people who were staring out windows and sitting at their desks just as they had hundreds of times when their lives were forever shattered by an unprecedented act of war.
While some reporters marveled at man’s ability to harness the cataclysmic power of atomic energy (New York Times staff member William Laurence, the only journalist to witness the terrible technology first hand, wrote with wonder, “It was no longer smoke, or dust, or even a cloud of fire. It was a living thing, a new species of being, born right before our incredulous eyes.”), others focused on calculating the staggering number of lives lost or capturing the wasteland left behind (New York Herald Tribune’s Homer Bigart observed when he visited Hiroshima in September 1945 that “across the river there was only flat, appalling desolation, the starkness accentuated by bare, blackened tree trunks and the occasional shell of a reinforced concrete building.”)
Hersey took a different approach. Hiroshima, originally published as a 30,000 word feature in the August 1946 issue of the New Yorker, is now considered a landmark of new journalism, a style of reporting that blended the impartial facts of traditional journalism with the pacing and storytelling of a novel. By funneling the harrowing events of that historic day through the soul-expanding subjectivity of stories instead of the heartless objectivity of mere numbers, Hersey was able to demolish the barricade between ally and enemy so often erected by war. The result is a compassionate document that— as one critic put it— “stirs the conscience” of the soul.
Hiroshima’s first line is perhaps one of journalism’s best-known:
“At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning, on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk.”
In his instructive new book The Art of X-Ray Reading: How the Secrets of 25 Great Works of Literature Will Improve Your Writing, journalist and Poynter Institute senior scholar Roy Peter Clark seeks to break down this stellar first sentence so we can better understand how it works. A curator of spellbinding sentences and lover of lively prose, Clark contends the secret to writing well is hidden in literature’s masterworks or— as Matthew Arnold might say— in “the best that’s been thought and said” in the world. If we want to be compelling writers, we just have to crack the code. “Cracking the code” means paying attention to how an author mesmerizes us with his words. Like Hemingway, does he seduce us to turn the page by revealing less information than he withholds? Or like Plath, does he create a sense of unity by repeating an overarching motif or symbol? In much the same way authors of that endlessly edifying guide to close-reading How to Read a Book revere books as absent teachers, Clark believes literature has a wealth of writing wisdom to offer.
So how, Clark wonders, does Hersey manage to captivate us from Hiroshima’s very first line?
The sentence itself is rather simple: 63 words, 32 of which are only 1-syllable. There is no flamboyant expression, no elaborate sentence structure, no theatrical melodrama. Even the subject matter is mundane: other than the offhand reference to the bomb “flashing above Hiroshima,” the sentence focuses on the ordinary and everyday, particularly one Miss Toshiko Sasaki, who’s doing the most uninteresting thing you could possibly conceive: turning her head to chat with a co-worker. So why is this one of the most riveting first lines in all of literature? For Clark, the secret is pacing:
“This feels like a most unconventional way to begin a story. In spite of the importance of time to the telling of all narratives, we rarely see this degree of temporal specificity in a first line. The word exactly is not a modifier but an intensifier. We then learn the minutes, the hour ante meridiem, the month, day, year, and time zone. That’s seven discrete time metrics before a verb. The rhetorical effect of such specificity is that of a historical marker. Something world-changing is about to happen (a meteor struck the earth; a volcano exploded; a jet plane flew into the Pentagon). Chaucer’s springtime at the beginning of The Canterbury Tales is generic and cyclical. In Hiroshima we are about to meet a group of pilgrims who share an experience that is triggered at a specific moment in time.
In a way, time is also about to stand still. Clocks and watches, damaged by the atomic blast, stopped at the moment of destruction. This symbol of the stopped watch in relation to Hiroshima is repeated as late as 2014 in the updated version of the movie Godzilla. The original was made in Japan in 1954 and is widely recognized as a science-fiction, monster-movie allegory of the consequences of nuclear destruction. In the updated version, Japanese actor Ken Watanabe carries around the talisman of a pocket watch owned by his grandfather, killed at Hiroshima. The time is frozen at eight fifteen.”
As writers, what can we take away from this unforgettable first sentence? Just as Hersey uses temporal specificity to stop time and signal that something history-making is about to happen, we can decelerate— or “freeze frame”— our narrative to amplify drama and build suspense:
Writing Lesson #1
“Stories are about time in motion. But there are moments when time seems to stop, at least in narrative terms: when the atom bomb drops, when Kennedy is shot, when the Challenger explodes. As a writer, you can mark that moment when time stands still. Freeze a movie into a still frame.”
Hiroshima is not only a paragon of pacing— it’s a matchless example of understatement. “If ever there was a subject calculated to make a writer overwrought and a piece overwritten, it was the bombing of Hiroshima,” observed New Yorker journalist and political commentator Hendrik Hertzberg. When a story is as momentous as Pearl Harbor or September 11th, it seems made for the newspapers. There’s conflict, there’s catastrophe, there’s lives lost. But though it’s tempting to hyperbolize, a good writer will restrain himself. What makes Hiroshima so powerful is the way Hersey lets the material speak for itself. Instead of indulging in melodrama— say, by sensationalizing the carnage or heavy-handedly accentuating the scene’s pathos— Hersey writes in a matter-of-fact style, employing only plain words all the while maintaining a dispassionate, journalistic tone. As Clark explains, when a story is “big,” the key is to write “small”:
“In bringing us finally to the main part of the sentence, the author puts into practice two reliable rhetorical strategies, one from ancient Greece, the other from the American newsroom. The name for the first is litotes, or understatement- the opposite of hyperbole. While an unwise writer might overwhelm us with the visceral imagery of destruction, Hersey chooses to introduce a most common scene of daily life: one office worker turning to another, allowing the drama to unfold. In the face of astonishing content, step back a bit. Don’t call undue attention to the tricks of the writer.
A related strategy comes from an old bit of newsroom wisdom: “The bigger the smaller.” Nowhere was this strategy used more than in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks on New York City on September 11th. Faced with almost apocalyptic physical destruction and the loss of nearly three thousand lives, writers such as Jim Dwyer of the New York Times looked for ways to tell a story that seemed from its inception “too big.” Dwyer chose to highlight physical objects with stories hiding inside of them: a window washer’s squeegee used to help a group break out of a stalled elevator in one of the Twin Towers; a family photo discovered in the rubble; a paper cup used by an escaping stranger to give water to another.
The author of Hiroshima offers readers something akin to writing teacher Robert McKee’s “inciting incident.” This is the moment that kicks off the energy of the story, the instant when normal life is transformed into story life. All the characters described in the first paragraph are experiencing a version of normal, everyday life- given the context of an ongoing world war- but whatever their expectations, they were changed forever at the exact moment the atomic bomb flashed over Hiroshima.”
Writing Lesson #2
“Given the exact nature of the news and the death toll, the author’s narrative feels somehow underwritten, in a good way. There are no elaborate metaphors. The author keeps the focus on the cast of characters and not on his own feelings or emotions. In general, this is a good rhetorical strategy. The more powerful or consequential the content, the more the author should “get out of the way.” This does not mean that craft must be set aside. Instead, it means craft must be used to create a feeling of understatement.”