Just couldn't get through this - I felt like each time the element changed and we went back to his childhood I was starting all over. Finally decided to put it in the abandoned and revisit pile.

Quite well-written and very sad in parts. The saddest and most moving section comes at the end where he discusses the death of his parents. Much of the book is a meditation on the impermanence of everything. The author deals with death, decay, and the transformation fo things into other forms.
The book is unconventional in its set-up. The chapters are arranged thematically, each loosely dealing with a different element ie blood, bone, dust, etc.
The book is not entirely melancholy, there are brief bits of dry humour. If one has the opportunity to meet the author and hear him read, parts of the book are actually laugh-out-loud funny.
Some of the book deals with Busch's time in Iraq and his acting career is briefly mentioned. If you're looking for a war memoir or a tell-all Hollywood book I would not recommend this. If want something that is poetically written, difficult to classify, and that makes you think, then you'll enjoy reading this memoir. ( )

"I knew very early that I was a solitary being. I longed for the elemental". That is how the prologue to this book begins. Two pages into this memoir, I was entranced. Busch has a style of writing that thrills me in a way that I cannot explain--baldly honest, clear eyed and bursting with the visual and tactile as well as profound emotion with a deep seated philosophy a constant undercurrent to the prose. He tells his story through the elements that have made the most impressions on him throughout his life, with chapters named "Water", "Soil", Wood", "Stone". He also reveals his life long affinity toward soldiering in "Arms", "Metal", "Blood". Yet, just like in life, all of the elements come into play, often mixing together during important times, providing acontinuous center that not everyone can identify in themselves. Written as a way through his grief at the loss of his parents--both in less than a year--this book offers up a way for all of us to examine our lives and their components, to see how they built us, where they have taken us or will take us, and what it all means. This is an astonishing book, and I cannot find enough ways to recommend it. I'll settle with, "Please, read this book." ( )

Benjamin Busch's memoir, DUST TO DUST, is a piece of work that is at once puzzling and moving. Puzzling because I wondered how a Vassar graduate who had majored in studio art could seem so easily conversant about things like soil and stone, metal and water, ash and bone - things one would normally associate with earth sciences, geology or archaeology. And moving because, by using these elements as primary symbols and vehicles for telling his life story, he touches too on the pain of extended family separations, injuries and wounds, loss of comrades-in-arms and loved ones, and the grief and hard-won wisdom that follow.

Some readers may have trouble with the spiraling, circular narrative, which jumps from his solitary childhood enterprises and adventures to his war-time service as a Marine officer in Iraq, then back to that childhood in upstate New York and Maine. He tells too of his college years, interspersed with more tales of his military training in Virginia, North Carolina and California, his deployments to Ukraine and Korea, and trips as a child and young man to England. What emerges is a portrait of a boy and a man with a boundless curiosity about the world he inhabits and how he fits into it. His whole life Busch has struggled against rules and expectations, endlessly experimenting and daring to be different. The son of a novelist (Frederick Busch) father and librarian mother, Busch grew up with a healthy respect for books, but was drawn more to exploring the forests, fields and streams that surrounded their rural home, building walls, forts and bridges in a childhood marked by an extraordinary unstructured freedom foreign to today's children. Busch's description of his childhood explorations and wanderings made me think of Cooper, and the child Ben Busch as a kind of half-size Natty Bumppo -

"The forest spread undisturbed and beyond measure, and I felt like I had found a place before maps. I drew my own map of the forest, without a compass, and gave names to the terrain. It was a kind of storytelling."

Busch continues describing this forest, this "place before maps," until he reaches a point he proclaimed "the center of the forest," and comments, "Reading ROBINSON CRUSOE here would be different from reading it in a room." There, of course, is that inescapable influence of his more cautious, book-ish parents.

Although both of Ben's grandfathers had served in WWII, his parents were shocked when Ben joined the Marines out of Vassar. He was, in fact, the very first Marine officer candidate to come from Vassar, which his boot camp commander called a "girls' school." Busch had the ill-advised temerity to correct the officer, saying, as his many female classmates had taught him, that it was a "women's college, sir." (In fact, Vassar has ben co-educational since 1969.)

There is no hint of braggadocio or macho chest-thumping to be found anywhere in Busch's accounts of his service in Iraq. He tells instead, in tellingly terse terms, of being ambushed, of rushing his wounded men to aid stations, of holding the hand of a too-young man, bleeding out and in shock, asking, "What is happening to me?" Busch doesn't have an answer. He goes outside into the dark and washes the man's blood from his hand. In another incident he tells of how he and a captain friend break the tension of a dangerous patrol by trading remembered absurd dialogue about being "in great peril" from MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL. Moments later the captain was dead from an IED explosion. Feeling powerless, in a letter home, Busch reviews the Rules of Engagement -

"Positive identification of a threat is required before you can fire. Reasonable certainty ... You are not sure, in the shimmering imagination of night vision equipment, if you see something moving. It can't be positively identified. You are holding your fire. You are holding your position ..."

He reflects on how the "purity of service had been corrupted by the moral ambiguity of political language." Like most servicemen deployed to Iraq, Busch suffered concussions from bomb blasts, a daily hazard a medical surgeon shrugs off as "typical." Besides telling of his own time in Iraq, Bush also touches on the agony of waiting suffered by his parents during his two tours there. His father, in a piece he wrote for HARPER'S, commented on how he and his wife, both in their mid-sixties, ticked off each successive day of his time there, adding, "Perhaps we feel that by slicing another day off our lives, as we wish it away to bring him home, we are spending our lives to buy his."

This is a serious memoir, no mistake. But there is humor here too, as in Busch's description of his first brush with acting at the age of seven, when he dies dramatically by falling noisily backward off a school stage, a feat which caused a collective gasp from cast and audience alike. Years later, out of the Corps, his first two acting jobs are, ironically, as a corpse on a morgue table, and a murder victim lying in a pool of blood on a freezing Baltimore street. His roles have gotten better since then.

As a child growing up in the Catholic Church, I can still remember the priest's words every Ash Wednesday when he smudged the ashes onto my forehead, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." Benjamin Busch, in one of his returns to his childhood endeavors, tells of a stone fort he built as a boy and the pleasure he took in simply sitting inside it, saying he wanted to live in it. But he could "also imagine being buried in it. It was my work, this crypt built of stone, intended for perpetuity like any grave. All anyone would need to do would be to lay me inside and fill it in." These kinds of thoughts may seem foreign and dismal to some, but not Busch, who also says: "There is something to be said about being dust. It is where we're all headed."

DUST TO DUST is a work of art unto itself, a memoir unique, troubling and magical. I will not soon forget it. ( )