A boy standing alone in a snow-covered and bombed-out landscape, looking up at the moon, thinking of someone far away.
This is what The Typist made me think of.
It is not what the book is about. It is about a U.S. soldier stationed in Tokyo post-WWII. He's a typist under the command of MacArthur. He has a newly-wed wife back home and a roommate named Clifford who will, eventually, make the tragic and common mistake of falling in love.
The typist is also a fan of college football. He is an Alabama man. This will be important later.
Tokyo here is a city of pan-pan girls, industrious street kids, and make-shift diamonds chalked between ruined buildings. It is a city under an American occupation, somewhat in awe of MacArthur and doing what it has to in order to survive. What ugliness remains from the war is presented quietly, and often in passing, as with boys playing baseball among the ruins, or a dance-hall girl's pale, burned skin and crooked hand.
For much of the book, the typist exists as a witness to the louder world around him. He types out his roommate's letters to home (Clifford's mom complains of his hand-writing) and declines to partake in the dance-hall culture that Clifford enjoys and resolutely forgets to mention to his mother. Sometimes he takes walks into the city, to a sake and noodle bar, to practice what Japanese he's learned. Things change, though, as they always do. He agrees to accompany Clifford on a double-date into town. Clifford’s girl, Namiki, refused to go otherwise. It is here that the typist meets a dance-hall girl named Fumiko who keeps one arm always hidden within her kimono’s folds.
In thanks, Clifford pulls a string or two to get the typist an invitation to watch the Army-Navy game with MacArthur. Not long after this, the typist finds himself playing war with MacArthur's son and the boy's collection of tin soldiers. A friendship evolves while, in the meantime, the typist deals with his wife being pregnant with another man's child, and his dawning affections towards a quiet woman scarred by something very loud and violent.
Knight has a way of painting scenes both beautiful and distressing. There is the general's son, alone in a row boat, paddling around a small, impeccable pond. In another, the typist watches Namiki working as a department store mannequin, holding herself stilly beautiful as onlookers wait for the brief, but inevitable moment when she falters and changes position. And, late in the book, the typist and Fumiko bear witness to a snowy and bizarrely competitive football game held inside a make-shift stadium built within the heart of Hiroshima.
The typist was born in the town of Mobile, a place far away from snow and Udon. His father was tug-boat captain. a In Tokyo, the typist often thought of his father alone on a small boat, pushing and pulling much larger ships along dark rivers. By the time of his discharge, though, he carries with him new scenes to ponder, scenes of love and suicide, of snow and football, and of a brief moment of companionship offered by, and accepted from, a scarred woman on a train.
Knight leaves us with the typist at home and transformed, a stranger in a familiar, but different place, populated by familiar, but different people--carrying with him the weight of memories strange and beautiful and violent. Memories like that of a boy in a snow-covered and ruined city, maybe watching the moon, or maybe watching a game of football. It’s all you can do sometimes to remember that such things really happen.