(John Tomedi) Kurt Vonnegut (Great Writers) (B-Ok - CC) PDF

G R E AT W R I T E R S KURT VONNEGUT
G R E AT W R I T E R S
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
JACK KEROUAC
BARBARA KINGSOLVER
SYLVIA PLATH
J.R.R. TOLKIEN
KURT VONNEGUT
G R E AT W R I T E R S
KURT VONNEGUT
John Tomedi
Foreword by Peter J. Reed

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tomedi, John.
Kurt Vonnegut / John Tomedi.
p. cm. — (Great writers)
Includes bibliographical references (p. ).
ISBN 0-7910-7848-5
1. Vonnegut, Kurt—Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. II. Series:
Great writers (Philadelphia, Pa.)
PS3572.O5Z865 2004
813'.54—dc22
2004006274
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S
FOREWORD
Peter J. Reed vii
CHAPTER ONE
Out of Indianapolis 1
CHAPTER TWO
From General Electric to Germany 20
CHAPTER THREE
Call Me Jonah 38
CHAPTER FOUR
So It Goes 54
CHAPTER FIVE
Burying Dresden 69
CHAPTER SIX
Ten Years More 90
CHAPTER SEVEN
Even Later Works 105
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Man with Something to Say 120
WORKS CITED 134

CHRONOLOGY 137
WORKS BY KURT VONNEGUT 141
BIBLIOGRAPHY 142
INDEX 146
FOREWORD PETE R J. R E E D
I have become an enthusiast of the printed word

again. I have to be that, I now understand, because
I want to be a character in all of my works.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Between Time and Timbuktu, xv
IN CHAPTER 5 OF THIS Critical biography, John Tomedi quotes

Kurt Vonnegut’s saying the above after his venture into playwriting
with “Happy Birthday, Wanda June.” Plays, Vonnegut found, left
him no role, except that of the puppeteer behind the scenes, pulling
the strings. But increasingly throughout the novels that had
preceded the play, Vonnegut had brought himself into his fiction,
exemplified in Slaughterhouse-Five’s “That was me. I was there.”
The extraordinary degree to which Vonnegut invests himself in
his fiction makes the biographical approach John Tomedi takes in
the present work most appropriate. The linkages between the life
and the writing are ever-present in the novels of Kurt Vonnegut. It
is not unusual for writers to draw on or adapt personal experiences
in their work, or to fictionalize as characters people they have met.
Likewise, other writers use a first person narrator, an “I,” who
takes a point of view that may be close to the author’s own.
Vonnegut transcends both of these influences of biography upon
content and narration. Tomedi explores the evolution of this
distinctive quality as he traces the years and the pages of Kurt
Vonnegut’s long career.
And what a long career that has been. As Tomedi points out,
even half a century after the publication of Vonnegut’s first novel,
vii
viii FOREWORD
Player Piano, all of his books are still in press. (The short story
collection Canary in a Cathouse was effectively subsumed into
Welcome to the Monkey House.) Such longevity is rare, and only
comes about when successive generations of readers find the works
still relevant and satisfying. That acceptance is perhaps more
remarkable than that Vonnegut has remained productive and
imaginatively fertile over more than fifty years, constantly
experimenting and evolving.
In recounting Vonnegut’s life, John Tomedi shows how as a
child he found that he could get the attention of parents and older
siblings by being funny, telling little jokes. Years later Vonnegut
would describe his novels as mosaics made up of tiles, each tile
being a joke. In high school and college Vonnegut wrote for
student newspapers and learned the direct, clipped style that came
to characterize his fiction. The Great Depression following the
1929 stock market crash left a deep impression. His unemployed
father shrank into himself feeling a loss of self esteem, while his
mother became increasingly desperate as her lifestyle declined,
finally committing suicide. These events helped shape Vonnegut’s
social, political and economic views. He probes the question of
“what are people for?” What gives them a sense of worth, and
what answers their loneliness and alienation? Noting the
fragmenting of the extended family of his childhood, he stresses
the need for community and mutual support.
Most dramatic is his surviving the apocalyptic firebombing of
Dresden while a prisoner of war in 1945. Witnessing the
destruction of the city and the deaths of so many of its people
amplifies his pre-existing pacifist instincts. He sees what
perverted science can do to humanity and, confronted by the
corpses of so many innocent civilian victims of the “good guys” of
the war, comes to view Dresden as the emblem of the terrible
moral ambiguities societies must face. His postwar work as a
public relations “flack” influences his view of the impact of the
corporate system on the lives of average Americans, and leads to
searching explorations of the ethics of the writer who, be it in PR
or novels, makes up beguiling fictions. Thus all of these events
come to shape his writing.
FOREWORD ix
Tomedi several times makes mention of Vonnegut’s being an

atheist, or, as he himself puts it, an inheritor of the family
tradition of being “German free thinkers.” That, by the way, is not
to say that Vonnegut dismisses Christianity. Tomedi quotes his
saying, “I admire Christianity more that anything—Christianity as
symbolized by gentle people sharing a common bowl.” While he
several times satirizes the behavior of fundamentalist sects (and
other religions), Vonnegut cites the Sermon on the Mount and
others of Jesus’s teachings as models for living with consideration
for others, especially the deprived. But his view of existence as
contingent, random, not guided by some divine purpose,
influences not just content but form. No doubt Vonnegut’s
personal experiences reinforce his view of a random or Absurd
universe. The bewildering succession of events he has
experienced—the Ardennes battle, the Dresden immolation, his
mother’s suicide, the near-simultaneous deaths of his sister Alice
and her husband John Adams—must have given personally-felt
substance to a philosophical belief. And so postmodernism, with
its underlying assumption that meaning is constructed out of
language, becomes his natural medium. As Tomedi recounts, Cat’s
Cradle, with its made-up San Lorenzon dialect, made-up
Bokononist religion, and its toyshop model-railway-layout
geography, marks the point where Vonnegut’s postmodernism
becomes most apparent.
That Vonnegut has outlasted many of his contemporaries does
not mean that his career has been without controversy. As Tomedi
shows, he has been subject to attack both by those who would
censor him and by assorted critics. His would-be censors, mostly
fundamentalist Christian conservatives, have objected to his
diction and his socio-religious views. The relatively few four letter
words occur mostly in situations where the characters probably
would in reality use them, although elsewhere (Breakfast of
Champions) he seeks to dispell the pious inhibitions that have
adhered to what are, after all, just words. As a “free thinker” and
an anthropologist, Vonnegut has irreverently satirized our need for
and creation of religions (most conspicuously in Cat’s Cradle ),
evoking further ire in some quarters. As to the critics, Tomedi
x FOREWORD
balances his account by citing both press reviewers and academics

who, by and large, suspect that Vonnegut is too facile, too easily
banished to the realms of popular fiction, to be taken very
seriously.
Vonnegut has famously noted that his earliest critics sought to
cast him as a science fiction writer, and that the label has tended
to stick. This began with his first short story, “Report on the
Barnhouse Effect,” and such titles as Utopia 14 (the Bantam
reissued Player Piano) and The Sirens of Titan encouraged its
continuance. Vonnegut points out that his early works were
written while he worked at the General Electric research
laboratories, so reflected the world he saw every day. Beyond that,
as Tomedi with the support of others demonstrates, Vonnegut
simply makes use of science fiction plots and devices toward a
more profound end. The science fiction is never the point.
Vonnegut clearly has been successful in making the modes of
popular fiction a way to address serious issues, both topical and
timeless. Consequently, he has so engaged his audiences that his
books remain in print and he remains in demand as a speaker.
Hocus Pocus is as relevant to the early twenty-first century as
Player Piano was to the 1950’s.
The other source of Vonnegut’s enduring popularity is, of
course, that he is funny. Discussing a writer’s humor often comes
across rather like explaining a joke—nothing funny remains. In
this book, Tomedi mentions Vonnegut’s admiration of the radio
comedians of the Depression years, and how he appreciated their
sense of timing. Certainly one sees that in Vonnegut’s speaking
engagements, the “How to Get a Job Like Mine” performances,
which evince more than a touch of stand-up comedy. Such timing
is harder to get into writing, but he frequently manages it. There
are short, punchy one-joke segments, or longer lead-ups to a brisk
punch line, or shaggy-dog endings that lead into a space that we
fill with a groan. Much of his humor depends on disparity, often
between the painful and the seemingly glib. Slaughterhouse-Five
provides the most obvious example, with “So it goes,” following
every death. That often seems laughable, such as when it occurs
after a discussion of whether the novel is dead. But as the carnage
FOREWORD xi
mounts, reaching into its contemporary audience’s pain at the

murders of Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy, “So it
goes” becomes an incremental refrain that takes on added meaning
with its insistent, deadly repetition.
Vonnegut also finds humor in the disparities between our
expectations or aspirations and the realities that life deals us. His
plots are replete with things that “shouldn’t happen,” that are
unexpected or illogical. These range from the celebratory
pantomime staged by the British prisoners of war for the dazed
American arrivals in Slaughterhouse-Five, to the dreadful accident
of Deadeye Dick’s Rudy Waltz firing aimlessly over the rooftops and
killing a woman, earning him the ludicrous title of “Deadeye
Dick.” Vonnegut’s more bizarre inventions amplify such disparities
and their sometimes comic effects. The variable gravity in Slapstick
transforms something we take for granted as unchanging. While it
wreaks terrible havoc, it also, in its lighter moments, makes us
laugh, as people toss manhole covers like frisbies and all the men
get erections. Sometimes the painful comedy involves characters
who are “crazy as a bedbug,” but Vonnegut’s humor often involves
decent people trying to cope with an irrational world. He
describes this best in the Prologue of Slapstick, seeing life as a series
of tests of his “limited agility and intelligence.”
The fundamental joke with Laurel and Hardy, it seems to me, was
that they did their best with every test. They never failed to bargain
in good faith with their destinies, and were screamingly adorable
and funny on that account. (Slapstick 1)
So in the midst of his description of the worst human tragedy he

has witnessed, Vonnegut makes his stand-in Billy Pilgrim a
hobbling scarecrow, bemusedly smiling at the children who mock
him.
Such humor may be born of a pessimistic view of human
success in dealing with an Absurd universe, and Tomedi in this
book draws much attention to Vonnegut’s pessimism. Yet this kind
of humor, rather like the “gallows humor” that prevailed in the
trenches of World War I, can help sustain in adversity. It is also a
xii FOREWORD
kind of humor that implies compassion and warmth, as we see in

the Laurel and Hardy quotation above, and if there is one value
that pervades Vonnegut’s writing it is the treatment of others with
kindness, decency and respect. “Goddam it, you’ve got to be
kind,” Eliot Rosewater says, and there, crudely summed up, is the
essence of Vonnegut. He does, after all, provide triumphs in the
face of the world he views so darkly. In Slapstick, one person after
another helps Melody accomplish her unlikely journey to find her
grandfather, and the cynical boy Chrono of The Sirens of Titan
finally cries, “Thank you, Mother and Father, for the gift of life!”
There may be no happy endings, but there are encouraging
moments of people helping people, acts of kindness and decency,
posed in the face of incoherence and catastrophe.
As we have seen, Vonnegut’s own life has been dogged by
tragedy. His admired father’s painful withdrawal. His mother’s
suicide. The shocking death of his brother-in-law John Adams,
hours before the cancer-caused death of his beloved sister Alice.
Capture and imprisonment in the Second World War. Surviving
the Dresden fire-raid and being put to work exhuming corpses
from the wreckage. Divorce, and his first wife’s death from cancer.
His own struggles with depression, his failed suicide in 1984, and
his near death in a house fire in 2000. It would all seem much to
bear. Yet here he is, at eighty-one still a delightfully funny man,
still working, still with his message of peace and decency, still
resilient. Here he is.
Peter J. Reed
March 2004
CHAPTER ON E
Out of Indianapolis
I’m no brighter or better educated than anyone else,

but it seems to me we’re in terrible danger. I see no
reason that would persuade me we’ll escape a third
world war. I see a number of reasons to conclude
we’re on a collision course with ecological disaster.
On a less spectacular note, I think we can be
absolutely certain a nuclear plant is going to blow
within the next few years; the mathematical odds of
that are intolerable.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut
HOW A HAPLESS JOKESTER like Kurt Vonnegut rose to become

nothing short of a guru to millions in the 1960’s and 1970’s,
gaining uncanny critical attention while still in his prime, drawing
the ire of literary and social traditionalists, and earning his place as
an American cultural mainstay may very well be the subject of one
of his own books. This is the irony in Vonnegut’s work: the plain
absurdity in his fiction is the stuff of his life. In a bizarre,
Vonnegutian twist, the new style of fiction he spearheaded—one
that acknowledged fiction as a fiction, a falsehood; one that
proffered strong dialectics out of altogether absurd environments;
1
2 KURT VONNEGUT
one that paired ever-present humor with grim, pessimistic

outlooks—developed from his conventional start in the
mainstream pages of the Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, and other
magazines, and his heavy messages first appeared under the cover
of cheap drugstore paperbacks. The irony ends, though, with the
admission that Kurt Vonnegut is, of course, entirely conscious of
all of this: his universe of chance outcomes and dubious heroes is
precisely the experience of his life.
Vonnegut is ensconced in the century that produced him.
Through war and genocide, through amazing and unchecked
technological advancement, through the Atomic age and its threat
of global annihilation, through the exercise of democracy when
the civil rights movement and protestors of the Vietnam war
needed democracy the most, Vonnegut the satirist emerged a
stalwart pacifist in the face of ever-increasing armament, a neo-
Luddite during the most dramatic period of invention in human
history, and a prolific atheist under multiple fundamentalist
movements. He wrote himself into the middle of things, taking
pains to circumscribe the events of the last century with purpose,
humor, and accessibility in mind. He effervesced to roil the
American optimism and apathy of the post-World War II era,
operating under the notion that art should be held responsible for
social critique.
Slaughterhouse-Five (1969) launched the author into the
national consciousness, finding its place on banned-books and
best-seller lists alike. In actuality, it was a culmination of the sort
of fiction he had been writing for twenty years, though it was
received as a timely and groundbreaking masterwork, something
new for the American readership to experience. But
Slaughterhouse-Five’s real power was in its embrace by a
combustible college audience second-guessing American efforts in
Vietnam. Vonnegut’s exoneration of pacifism and his easy
lampoons of accepted belief systems emboldened a generation
against authority and placed him quickly on the syllabi of
literature courses. He found himself in the late sixties and early
seventies enjoying the role of advocate, public-spokesman, activist.
For almost a decade in the 1960’s and 1970’s, Vonnegut’s work
OUT OF INDIANAPOLIS 3
and words gained an almost religious reverence in the eyes of his

younger readers. But along with this popularity, the seeming
simplicity of his prose and presentation put the author under the
heavy shrewdness of the Academy and the literary establishment,
and his iconoclasm brought on renewed cries for censorship. Thus,
for his calls for change he was hailed as the spokesperson of a
progressive generation; for his experimental narratives, he was
tagged corrupter of literature, and for a few four-letter words, a
corrupter of youth.
This is not to say that even in the present time Kurt Vonnegut
is lacking in popular stamina. In 2004 his twenty-one books,
which include fourteen novels, three non-fiction titles featuring
essays and autobiographical material, two collections of short
stories, a libretto of pretended interviews, and a play, are all in
print. Four of his works have been made into feature films. Adding
to this his years on the lecture circuit and his countless interviews
and essays for newspapers and magazines, Kurt Vonnegut is the
model of modern literary fame.
Vonnegut’s tendencies are not difficult to spot. Jokes proliferate
in his writing. Short chapters, paragraphs, and sentences make for
an often easy read, and many of his novels might be had in one
sitting. For all the humor and simplicity, however, his
examinations of the human condition produce a view that is often
pessimistic. Beginning with Player Piano (1952), Vonnegut
explores the effects of the increased mechanization of society,
especially as it displaces human beings from meaningful work and,
therefore, meaningful existence. The same loss of dignity is
portrayed in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (1965), where money
and material objects dictate the lives of so many, and simple
decency toward one another is possible only at the edge of
insanity. The Sirens of Titan (1959), Cat’s Cradle (1963),
Slaughterhouse-Five, and others sketch the futility of existence, the
failure of religion and technology to improve the human
condition, and the place of chance and misfortune in life. War and
cataclysm seem always ready to take root and destroy. Loneliness is
endemic, becoming a major theme in Slapstick (1976) and the
works following. Suicide is everywhere.
4 KURT VONNEGUT
His willingness to question humanity’s relationship to time and

technology had Vonnegut dubbed a science fiction writer early in
his career, though to dwell on the presence of aliens and futuristic
settings in some of his works is to ignore much of what he says
and how he says it. His frequent lampoons of societal ills make
him a literary descendant of Jonathan Swift, and he writes
arguably the funniest prose since Mark Twain. His
experimentation with narrative style, with metafictional forms,
with ideas of truth and fiction, align him with postmodernists like
Pynchon and Rushdie, Heller and Reed, a pack of writers saying
things differently than English departments were teaching, who,
moreover, denied that a grave message precluded the possibility of
humor. But Vonnegut breaks away from these in his racing, simple
style and diction. Reading a Vonnegut book is hardly a chore. If
the author has a theory of literature, it is a resistance to the notion
that good writing has to be difficult to understand.
For all his synonymity with innovation, Kurt Vonnegut grew
up in the Middle America of Depression-era Indianapolis. The
views, settings, and situations his novels portray find much of
their source in his experiences growing up—his ancestry, family
life, and service in World War II—the details of which Vonnegut
has been happy to impart.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., was born November 11, 1922, the youngest
of three children to Kurt Vonnegut and Edith Lieber, celebrated
members of the Indianapolis upper class. Kurt Sr. was a successful
young architect whose father practiced the same trade, and was in
fact the first architect licensed by the state of Indiana. His mother
Edith grew up in the opulence of the Lieber fortune, built through
the success of the P. Lieber & Company brewery in Indianapolis.
Married in Indianapolis’ First Unitarian Church on November 22,
1913, their wedding celebration was, “probably the biggest and
most costly party which the town had ever seen or is likely to ever
witness again,” attended by the leading German families of the
city. (Palm Sunday 51)
Much of what is known about Vonnegut’s lineage was
researched by his Uncle John Rauch, who was actually a husband
of Kurt Vonnegut Sr.’s cousin, and an intimate of the Vonnegut
family. His work, “An Account of the Ancestry of Kurt Vonnegut,

Jr., by an Ancient Friend of His Family,” was made available in the
author’s Palm Sunday. Though they were descendants of German
immigrants who had arrived in America not long before the Civil
War, both families enjoyed intense prosperity in the United States,
due partly to diligence and partly to a good start, since Vonnegut’s
ancestors were well-to-do even in Germany.
“I am descended from Europeans who have been literate for a
long time,” Vonnegut wrote in Palm Sunday, his first of two
autobiographical works, “who have not been slaves since the early
days of the Roman games, most likely” (Palm Sunday 18). Like
many literate Germans who emigrated to the United States in the
nineteenth century, Vonnegut’s forbears eschewed Christianity for
Free Thinking, a humanist, atheist doctrine, and they were active
enough that his great-grandfather Clemens Vonnegut, who died
in 1906, published a short book on his philosophy, entitled
Instruction in Morals. From this Vonnegut takes the epigraph for
Palm Sunday: “Whoever entertains liberal views and chooses a
consort that is captured by superstition risks his liberty and his
happiness.” Clemens’ self-penned funeral oration, a primer in
humanist thought, was printed in Palm Sunday. He writes:
We cannot believe that this Being formed a human being from clay
and breathed into it an Immortal Soul, and then allowed this
human being to procreate millions, and then delivered them all
into unspeakable misery, wretchedness and pain for all eternity.
Nor can we believe that the descendants of one or two human
beings will inevitably become sinners; nor do we believe that
through the criminal execution of an Innocent One we may be
redeemed. (194)
Even though he had not known about his great-grandfather’s

writings until 1976, Vonnegut adopted the precepts of Free
Thinking—not only those that deny the existence of a Christian
(or any other) God, but also its emphasis on human decency. So
Vonnegut’s fiction expounds how he believes people should behave
toward one another as much as it questions the Christian ideas of
6 KURT VONNEGUT
God. “How proud I became of our belief, how pigheadedly proud,

even, is the most evident thing in my writing, I think” (195).
Vonnegut’s parents had two children before him, Bernard and
Alice, both of whom were raised in the high society the Vonneguts
enjoyed, attending private schools throughout their formative
years. Kurt, too, attended the private Orchard School in
Indianapolis until 1936. They were raised in the arts, and
developed tastes for music, painting, and literature. When the
Great Depression hit the Vonnegut household, his mother
envisioned making “a new fortune by writing for the slick
magazines,” Vonnegut said in his Paris Review “self-interview.”
“She took short story courses at night. She studied magazines the
way gamblers study racing forms.” Vonnegut calls her his most
important influence on him as a writer (Hayman et al. 75).
The importance of the close, extended family is one of the
biggest themes in Vonnegut’s writing. The large, supportive family
Vonnegut has espoused in his fiction and public appearances has
its origins in the aegis of his boyhood Indianapolis. Though his
own nuclear family grew tumultuous, he was able to envision the
systems of support enjoyed by his father and his father’s father
before him:
Whenever I go to Indianapolis, the same question asks itself over

and over again in my head: “Where’s my bed, where’s my bed?”
And if my father’s and grandfather’s ghosts still haunt that town,
they must be wondering where all their buildings have gone to....
They must be wondering where all their relatives have gone to,
too. They grew up in a huge extended family which is no more. I
got the slightest taste of that—the big family thing. And when I
went to the University of Chicago, and I heard the head of the
Department of Anthropology, Robert Redfield, lecture on the
folk society, which was essentially a stable, isolated extended
family, he did not have to tell me how nice that could be.
(Hayman et al. 101)
After thinking about it for years, Vonnegut will locate the root of
many ills of society—marital problems, unattended children, the
proliferation of television, to name just a few—in the absence of

the big family in American culture.
Vonnegut’s German ancestry, too, has shadowed his life and
writing. Kurt Sr. and Edith Vonnegut were both raised in their
ethnicity—fluent in German, they even studied for years in
Germany. But World War I shattered many Old World ties,
contributing to his father’s withdrawal from the rest of the world.
“My father had lost all interest in current events by the time of the
first world war,” Vonnegut remembered in a 1980 interview. “He
lived in such a congenial world, one that treated him well as an
artist, and he loved to wander about Europe and America,
sketching and enjoying music. Well, when all that was smashed by
the war, my father let go. He lost all interest” (Allen, Conversations
with Kurt Vonnegut 228). In time with Kurt Sr’s abandon of his
European concerns, there developed an anti-German sentiment in
America that made a German ancestry something to conceal
during and after the Great War. His parents consciously kept
Vonnegut from his German heritage. As Vonnegut put it, “They
volunteered to make me ignorant and rootless as proof of their
patriotism,” (Palm Sunday 21).
Vonnegut’s humor has doubtlessly contributed to his appeal,
and he frequently cites its source in his family life growing up. In
his fiction, jokes are foundational. He has in fact described his
books as “essentially mosaics, thousands and thousands of tiny
little chips all glued together, and each chip is this thing I learned
to do—this thing I learned to make as a child—which is a little
joke” (Conversations 69). He describes his joking as an altogether
conscious effort on the part of himself as the baby of the family to
take part in the conversations and affairs of the rest of the family:
I got to be a joke-maker as the youngest member of my family. My

sister was five years older than I was, my brother was nine years
older, and at the dinner table I was the lowest ranking thing there.
I could not be interesting to these vivid grownups. My sister was a
sculptress and doing extremely well, my brother was a scientist, my
father was an architect, and so they had really bigtime stuff to
argue about. I wanted to talk to learn how to do it, to engage in
8 KURT VONNEGUT
give and take, and I must have made accidental jokes at first.
Everyone does. It’s a chancy thing, it’s a spoonerism or something
of that sort. But anyway it stopped the adult conversation for a
minute. And I understood the terms under which I could buy my
way into conversations, small as I was. So I got awfully good at
making jokes, and I became an avid reader of humor books. I
listened to radio comedians who were brilliant during the thirties
and found out that what made them so damned funny was how
their jokes were timed. (Conversations 69)
To these radio comedians—and comedians in general—Vonnegut

has attributed much. Certainly as a literary influence Vonnegut
has aligned himself with the great satirists. “The function of an
artist is to respond to his own time,” he told William Noble in
1972. “Voltaire, Swift and Mark Twain did it” (Conversations 64).
Vonnegut even named his son Mark after the great American
humorist. But it is from the radio comedians of his youth that
Vonnegut learned the registers of humor in society. From his 1973
interview with Robert Scholes:
The Depression did break people’s spirits. And the comedians

who—there was one each day, at least, as Fred Allen, Jack Benny,
and so forth, you got your little dose of humor every day, and the
people did cluster around the radios to pick up an amount of
encouragement, an amount of relief. (Conversations 124)
By the standards of the Depression, the Vonneguts were still

wealthy, but by his teens, the market crash of 1929 and its
aftermath had severely weakened the Vonnegut’s finances, and
Kurt Jr. had to attend public school. They were forced to sell the
family’s china and their mansion, designed and built by Kurt Sr.
The tremendous losses of the stock market crash had been
accentuated by the closing of the Lieber brewery during
Prohibition in 1921 (and by the spendthrift lifestyle of Edith
Vonnegut’s father, Albert), and the virtual non-existence of
architectural work during the Great Depression. “From the time
he was forty-five until he was sixty-one he had almost no work,”
Vonnegut recalled. (Fates Worse Than Death 22) During World

War II, likewise, American industry devoted so much of its
resources to the war machine that almost no buildings were built,
making it impossible for Vonnegut’s father to practice as an
architect.
The economic situation the Vonneguts faced during the Great
Depression proved to be mentally cataclysmic for his parents. His
father had to close the architectural firm started by his own father
and fire his employees. The lack of work led to a lack of purpose,
and Kurt Sr. withdrew from the world and world affairs. His
mother took the fall in status even more drastically. Raised with
servants and employing them her whole life, Vonnegut’s mother
found herself at odds with the duties of running a household and
raising children.
[B]y 1930 when it was obvious that everything was gone and
wasn’t going to come back, I got pulled out of an elitist private
school ... and sent to a public high school. Which was swell. I liked
it; it was interesting. But I would go over to other kids’ houses and
their mothers would make cookies and say, “Want something to
eat?” My mother absolutely refused to cook, and was proud of it.
Somebody who would actually say, “Come on in out of the cold
and have some hot soup” seemed like a very good person indeed.
(Conversations 270)
Edith Vonnegut became depressed, sleepless, and eventually

insane. “When my mother went off her rocker late at night,”
Vonnegut remembers in Fates Worse Than Death, his second
“autobiographical collage,” “the hatred and contempt she sprayed
on my father, as gentle and innocent a man as ever lived, was
without limit and pure, untainted by ideas or information” (Fates
Worse Than Death 36). Vonnegut’s later enlistment into the Army
in 1943 proved too much for her. Tragically, he was approved for a
special leave to go home for Mother’s Day, but she committed
suicide the day before he arrived.
The effects of economics and a sense of purpose on the mental
well-being of individuals is a theme visited often in Vonnegut’s
10 KURT VONNEGUT
fiction, and characters who face suicide are ubiquitous. There is

surely a source for Vonnegut’s overarching pessimism here, too,
and his own depressive periods. David Standish asked the author
about his sadness in his 1973 Playboy interview.
I’m an atheist, as I said, and not into funerals—I don’t like the idea
of them very much—but I finally decided to go visit the graves of
my parents. And so I did. There are two stones out there in
Indianapolis, and I looked at those two stones side by side and I
just wished—I could hear it in my head, I knew so much what I
wished—that they had been happier than they were. It would have
been so goddamned easy for them to be happier than they were....
I learned a bone-deep sadness from them. (Conversations 88–89)
Vonnegut’s switch to an Indiana public school—Shortridge

High School—put him in contact with the Shortridge Daily Echo.
Shortridge was one of the first schools in the country to have a
daily newspaper, and there Vonnegut reported and wrote, and by
his junior year became the editor of the Tuesday edition. This was
the beginning of Vonnegut’s experiences in journalism, orienting
him towards a career in writing, and informed the punchy, to-the-
point journalistic style of his fiction.
Vonnegut has remarked that if it were not for his father’s hard
luck in the field of architecture, he too would have happily taken
up the trade (Hayman et al. 100). He loved journalism, too, and
envisioned graduating from high school and going directly to
work for an Indianapolis newspaper. But Kurt Sr. did what he
could to steer his son away from the arts.
Father suggested that I become a scientist. My father himself was

an architect and quite demoralized about the arts, as he hadn’t
made any money for ten years because of the Depression. So he
told me to be a chemist, and since it was his money, I went and
started to become a chemist at Cornell University. (Conversations
111–112)
Vonnegut’s older brother Bernard had studied chemistry at MIT,

and had a very successful career ahead of him, a career choice

Vonnegut’s father lauded for its sensibility and its distance from
what he perceived the all-too-effeminate life of an architect. “[M]y
father was right on the edge of the woman’s world as an architect.
His father had been in the same spot. So they’d collect guns and go
hunting with the best of them” (Conversations 275). He suggests
his father’s extensive gun collection and frequent hunting trips was
compensation for a life in the arts.
His study of the sciences surely influences much of Vonnegut’s
fiction, yet he scored terribly at Cornell. He describes his time
there as “a boozy dream, partly because of the booze itself, and
partly because I was taking courses I had no talent for” (Hayman
et al. 79–80). He found diversions. He remembers fondly his
fraternity life in Delta Upsilon, and he wrote columns for the
student-owned newspaper. “When I got to Cornell my experiences
on a daily paper—and daily high school papers were unheard of
then—enabled me to become a big shot on Cornell’s Daily Sun”
(Conversations 196). Here he practiced his humor and wrote
pacifist pieces, but enlisted in March of 1943 after the Japanese
bombed Pearl Harbor. “I was flunking everything by my junior
year. I was delighted to join the Army and go to war” (Hayman et
al. 81).
In Fates Worse Than Death, Vonnegut recalls a stunt he pulled at
Cornell, just before he left college for army training:
All males were required to take two years of ROTC. I was in the
horse-drawn artillery, believe it or not. (That is how long ago that
was.) By the end of my sophomore year the USA was at war with
Germany, Italy, and Japan. I had enlisted in the Army and was
waiting to be called. A Major General came to inspect us. I went to
that inspection wearing every sort of medal, for swimming, for
scouting, for Sunday-school attendance or whatever, that I could
borrow from anyone. I may have been going nuts, since I was
flunking practically everything, including ROTC.
The General asked my name but otherwise made no comment.
I am sure, though, that he made a record of the incident, as he
should have, and that his report shadowed me, as it should have,
12 KURT VONNEGUT
during my subsequent three years as a full-time soldier, ensuring

that I, until the very end, would never rise above the rank of Private
First Class. It served me right, and it was one of the best things
that ever happened to me. (A half-educated PFC has so much to
think about!)
When the war was over (forty-five years ago!), I like everybody
else was entitled to wear a badge and several ribbons which were
militarily correct and respectable. It is my wry satisfaction now,
since I know what I did to deserve such ornaments, to regard them
as no more meaningful than the borrowed trinkets that I wore at
that fateful ROTC inspection so long ago. The joke at the
beginning was the joke at the end. How was that for
foreshadowing? (Fates 21)
That Vonnegut can look back derisively at his military experiences,

which Life magazine once called “a harrowing experience in
absurdity” (Conversations 12), is perhaps not surprising. The bulk
of his comment on the war and Dresden comes from the period
following the publication of Slaughterhouse-Five, and it may be
that the therapeutic, cathartic nature of writing he has testified to
in the past provided enough distance for him to make some light
of the events. Moreover, though he had spent years trying to
approach his capture and subsequent survival of the Allied
firebombing of Dresden in writing, he has downplayed the gravity
of the events themselves. “Dresden was astonishing,” he told
Playboy, “but experiences can be astonishing without changing
you” (Conversations 94).
Leaving Cornell, Vonnegut was trained on the 240mm howitzer,
“the largest mobile field piece in use at that time.” An outdated
monstrosity as artillery goes, Vonnegut jokes that its three hundred-
pound shell “would come floating out like the Goodyear blimp. If
we had a stepladder, we could have painted ‘Fuck Hitler’ on the
shell as it left the gun.” He called it “[t]he ultimate terror
weapon… of the Franco-Prussian War” (Hayman et al. 60–61).
Even though he took his training on this weapon, the Army
sent him back to school. At the Carnegie Institute of Technology
and the University of Tennessee he took courses in mechanical
engineering. He was then sent to Europe as a battalion scout for

the 106th Infantry Division, despite having received no training
for the infantry:
Battalion scouts were elite troops, see. There were only six in each
battalion, and nobody was very sure about what they were
supposed to do. So we would march over to the rec room every
morning, and play ping-pong and fill out applications for Officer
Candidate School. (Hayman et al., 61)
The 106th reached the European theatre in November of 1944,

just in time for the huge December German offensive—its last on
the Western front—known as the Battle of the Bulge. The
Americans took tremendous losses. “My last mission as a scout was
to find our own artillery.... Things got so bad that we were finally
looking for our own stuff ” (Hayman et al. 62). A Life magazine
article published in the wake of Slaughterhouse-Five shows the
beginning of his problems:
For what he believes to have been 11 days, he wandered around as

an infantry scout, improvising his own tactics (all his training had
been in the artillery), not knowing where the lines were or whether
there were any lines, and living with death in a catatonic embrace.
(Conversations 12)
Captured, he was taken to a prison camp for a time, then sent to

Dresden, where thousands of other POW’s were being held.
Contrary to some published accounts, Dresden was not an open
city—a city known to house no troops and support no war
industries, and hence not classified as an enemy target. It was,
however, home to many refugees and few standing troops, and so
was generally regarded to be “safe” from attack. Because of his
rank as a Private, the Geneva Convention dictated that he had to
work for his keep as a prisoner. “There were about a hundred of us
in our particular work group, and we were put out as contract
labor to a factory that was making vitamin-enriched malt syrup for
pregnant women” (Mother Night vi).
14 KURT VONNEGUT
Dresden was “the first fancy city I’d ever seen” (Hayman et al.
66), “a highly ornamented city, like Paris” (Conversations 163).
“The damned sirens would go off and we’d hear some other city
getting it—whump a whump a whumpa whump. We never
expected to get it” (Hayman et al., 66). “There were no air-raid
shelters, just ordinary cellars, because a raid was not expected
and the war was almost over,” he told interviewers Joe Bellamy
and John Casey in 1974. He also told them how a firestorm is
created:
Waves and waves of planes come over carrying high explosives

which open roofs, make lots of kindling, and drive the firemen
underground. Then they take hundreds of thousands of little
incendiary bombs (the size had been reduced from a foot and a
half to the size of a shotgun shell by the end of the war) and scatter
them. Then more high explosives until all the little fires join up
into one apocalyptic flame with tornadoes around the edges
sucking more and more, feeding the inferno. (Conversations 163)
This happened the night of February 13–14, 1945. The New

York Times reported details of the event on February 15th:
Dresden was hit three times within fifteen hours—twice by the

RAF in a 1,400-plane operation Tuesday night that started the
assault rolling, and again by Britain-based bombers of the Eighth
Air Force, which staged a 2,250-plane daylight follow-up....
Eight hundred RAF bombers struck Dresden in two attacks, the
first at 10 P.M. Tuesday, London time, the second three hours later.
They dropped nearly 650,000 incendiary bombs, hundreds of
two-ton block busters and a number of four-ton ones.
Smoke surged up three miles in the sky and flames were seen by
returning fliers 200 miles away—which indicated they must have
been a beacon to the Russian troops just east of Dresden.
The Germans reported the city as “a heap of ruins” by February

the 16th, and reported 20,000 deaths. That figure was raised to
70,000 by the 17th. A German radio announcer declared on the
night of March 4, 1945, that the city of Dresden no longer

existed. For some time the casualty count remained ambiguous
because of the large number of refugees in the city, but history
generally accepted the figure offered by David Irving in The
Destruction of Dresden at 135,000 people, and which Vonnegut
used as a source for Slaughterhouse-Five. (Irving later revised his
own figure to no more than 35,000 in a letter to the Times of
London in 1966; the number is still uncertain.)
Vonnegut, a few dozen other prisoners, and a handful of guards
became part of a very small number of Dresden survivors, finding
shelter in a meat locker three stories below the streets of
Dresden—Slaughterhouse-Five. When they surfaced Vonnegut
was given the job of digging for corpses in the rubble, “as a
sanitary measure.” But the number of the dead was so great, and
the city so ruined, that he describes it as a “terribly elaborate Easter
egg hunt.” Things would get worse:
After a few days the city began to smell, and a new technique was
invented. Necessity is the mother of invention. We would bust into
the shelter, gather up valuables from people’s laps without
attempting to identify them, and turn the valuables over to guards.
Then soldiers would come in with a flame thrower and stand in
the door and cremate the people inside. Get the gold and jewelry
out and then burn everybody inside. (Hayman et al. 67)
After the general surrender in May 1945, his German guards

vanished. “Vonnegut again wandered between lines for several
days, until he was repatriated by the Russians on May 22”
(Klinkowitz, Vonnegut in America 13). He spent some time in a
military hospital in Europe. “I was phenomenally hungry for
about six months. There wasn’t nearly enough to eat...”
(Conversations 94-95). After having gained back some of the 41
pounds he lost while a prisoner of war, Vonnegut returned to
Indianapolis. He was awarded the Purple Heart for frostbite.
Vonnegut remembers in Timequake that, Like Hemingway, he
“never shot a human being” during the war:
16 KURT VONNEGUT
When I got back from my war, my uncle Dan clapped me on the

back, and he bellowed, “You’re a man now!”
I damn near killed my first German. (Timequake 70)
He married Jane Cox, his high school sweetheart on September

1, 1945, and moved to Chicago to pursue a Master’s degree in
anthropology in December of that year. Vonnegut relished his
studies there. He recalled in a speech he gave to the National
Institute of Arts and Letters (published in his first work of non-
fiction, Wampeters, Foma, & Granfalloons) that his son once asked
him what the happiest moment of his life had been:
The happiest day of my life, so far, was in October of 1945. I had

just been discharged from the United States Army, which was still
an honorable organization in those Walt Disney times. I had just
been admitted to the Department of Anthropology at the
University of Chicago.
At last! I was going to study man! (Wampeters, Foma, &
Granfalloons 177)
Vonnegut’s study of social anthropology put him in contact with

Dr. Robert Redfield, who “became the most satisfying teacher in
my life” (Wampeters 178). Redfield’s idea of the folk society—
behaviors characteristic of all primitive societies, including small,
intimate groups of people, communicating exclusively with one
another, sharing an oral history, treating each other equally as
people—was wholly adopted into Vonnegut’s world view. It would
be the scientific skeleton he used to advance his own idea that a
large, supportive family would ease many modern societal
anxieties. His fantastic solution is the center of Wilbur Daffodil-
11 Swain’s presidential campaign in Slapstick: issue citizens a new
middle name that would randomly include them in a family
thousands strong.
Left-leaning faculty at Chicago were also advancing cultural
relativism when Vonnegut arrived in the forties, and here again
he felt right at home. “Religions were exhibited and studied like
the Rube Goldberg inventions I’d always thought they were,” he
said for the Paris Review. “We weren’t allowed to find one culture
superior to another” (Conversations 81). Such claims of the
universal efficacy of cultures and religions “confirmed [his]
atheism,” and became the centerpiece for one of his best and
best-known novels, Cat’s Cradle. “A first-grader should
understand that his culture isn’t a rational invention,” he told
Playboy, “that there are thousands of other cultures and they all
work pretty well; that all cultures function on faith rather than
on truth; that there are lots of alternatives to our own society”
(Conversations 104). Cat’s Cradle built a new religion,
Bokononism, on “harmless untruths” that affect happiness on
practitioners. It demonstrated (among other things) that truth
need not be prerequisite to a functioning religion. The novel
brought the precepts of cultural relativism from the pages of
scholarly journals to a freethinking collegiate youth:
Of course, now cultural relativity is fashionable—and that

probably has something, to do with my popularity among young
people. But it’s more than fashionable—it’s defensible, attractive.
It’s also a source of hope. It means we don’t have to continue this
way if we don’t like it. (Conversations 104)
For all he learned and loved in the Anthropology Department at

Chicago, Vonnegut did not earn his degree. His Master’s thesis,
which he described as “my prettiest contribution to my culture”
(Palm Sunday 312), was entitled Fluctuations Between Good and
Evil in Simple Tales. The text has apparently been lost, but
Vonnegut would give the basics in a chalkboard session at the end
of his public speaking engagements over the years, and has
reprinted the most important points in Palm Sunday.
His method was to gather stories from wide-ranging cultures—
Native American Indian stories, Biblical narratives, even short
stories from the slick magazines he would come to write for—and
plot them on a graph. Good or bad fortune was plotted on the x-
axis, while time figured on the y-axis, from beginning to end. A
story’s “shape” could thus be compared with those of other
cultures. His most compelling discovery was that Cinderella,
18 KURT VONNEGUT
which he notes is one of our culture’s most enduring stories—“at

this very moment, a thousand writers must be telling that story
again in one form or another,” (Palm Sunday 315)—bears
precisely the same shape as the creation, fall, and redemption told
by the Old and New Testaments. “I was thrilled to discover that
years ago, and I am just as thrilled today,” he writes (Palm Sunday
316). Fluctuations was unanimously rejected by the University of
Chicago. Ironically, a new dean at the University of Chicago
accepted Cat’s Cradle as a Master’s thesis and granted him a degree
in 1972, after he had achieved national recognition.
Vonnegut had by now attended four different institutions of
higher learning and by 1947 had nothing but a high school
diploma to find gainful employ. He had done some work in
journalism in Chicago, working as a beat reporter for the Chicago
City News Bureau, an agency that sold police and accident reports
to the newspapers of the area. He set down one event—the first he
had to cover—in Slaughterhouse-Five, two decades later. In the
novel, the story serves to prime the reader to expect any kind of
source in the book; at the same time it demonstrates the human
capacity for apathy he has witnessed firsthand:
[T]he first story I covered… was about a young veteran who had
taken a job running an old fashioned elevator in an office building.
The elevator door on the first floor was ornamental iron lace. Iron
ivy snaked in and out of the holes. There was an iron twig with
two iron lovebirds perched upon it.
This veteran decided to take his car into the basement, and he
closed the door and started down, but his wedding ring was caught
in all the ornaments. So he was hoisted into the air and the floor of
the car went down, dropped out from under him, and the top of
the car squished him. So it goes.
So I phoned this in, and the woman who was going to cut the
stencil asked me, “What did his wife say?”
“She doesn’t know yet,” I said. “It just happened.”
“Call her up and get a statement.”
“What?”
“Tell her you’re Captain Finn of the Police Department. Say
you have some sad news. Give her the news, and see what she
says.”
So I did. She said-about what you would expect her to say.
There was a baby. And so on. (Slaughterhouse-Five 9)
Contrary to Vonnegut’s own situation, Vonnegut’s older brother

Bernard was enjoying success and a promising career as a research
scientist. In 1947 he held a research position with General Electric
in their Schenectady facility, and through him Vonnegut found a
job working in their public relations department. He moved his
small but growing family—son Mark was born that year and
daughter Edith arrived in 1949—to Schenectady and took the
post for $90 a week.
He was twenty-five, and had never written so much as a short
story. But here his ambition, his need to support his family, his
ethical reservations about his work at General Electric, and his
creativity, came together to advance Vonnegut into a career as a
freelance writer.
CHAPTER TWO
From General Electric

to Germany
Dear Pop:
I sold my first story to Collier’s. Received my check
($750 minus a 10% agent’s commission) yesterday
noon. It now appears that two more of my works
have a good chance of being sold in the near future.
I think I’m on my way. I’ve deposited my first
check in a savings account and, as and if I sell more,
will continue to do so until I have the equivalent of
one year’s pay at GE. Four more stories will do it
nicely, with cash to spare (something we never had
before). I will then quit this goddamn nightmare
job, and never take another one so long as I live, so
help me God.
I’m happier than I’ve been in a good many years.
Love.
K.
—Letter to Kurt Vonnegut Sr.
October 28, 1949, Fates Worse Than Death
IN 1979, TEN YEARS AFTER the publication of Slaughterhouse-

Five, Vonnegut spoke to a crowd at an anti-nuke rally in
Washington, D.C.:
20
FROM GENERAL ELECTRIC TO GERMANY 21
The people who play with such chemicals are so dumb!

They are also vicious. How vicious it is of them to tell us as
little as possible about the hideousness of nuclear weapons and
power plants!
And, among all the dumb and vicious people, who jeopardizes
all life on earth with hearts so light? I suggest to you that it is those
who will lie for the nuclear industries, or who will teach their
executives how to lie convincingly—for a fee. I speak of certain
lawyers and communicators, and all public relations experts. The
so-called profession of public relations, an American invention,
stands entirely disgraced today. (Palm Sunday 71)
Kurt Vonnegut found himself in public relations in 1947. “Because

of all this background in science that I had had, they made me a
flak, a publicity man for the research laboratory there, which is an
excellent industrial research laboratory” (Conversations 112).
General Electric’s research lab was one where new ideas and
products were ubiquitous, and what he saw there impressed the 23-
year-old. He had grown up in awe of the sciences; years later he
would write in a piece for the Swedish newspaper Aftonbladet, “an
enthusiasm for technological cures for almost all forms of human
discontent was the only religion of my family during the Great
Depression, when I first got to know that family well” (Palm
Sunday 69). Vonnegut talked about these early days in a 1993
interview at the home of Ollie Lyon, a lifelong friend and fellow
public relations writer for GE in the late forties: “I was a child of
the Great Depression…. And to us a job has always been a job. If
you got a job, there would be a party and everything. Then about
midnight, somebody would ask what the job was” (Reed and
Leeds, 37).
If for a time he was happy for the work, he came to dislike it,
eventually describing the profession in the terms above. He was
particularly at odds with the compromises in truth he sometimes
had to engender; themes of artists who sacrifice their talents for
the sake of propaganda lace Vonnegut’s novels, most ostensibly in
Mother Night (1961). But it was the effects of technology that
made Vonnegut most uncomfortable as a corporate front man.
22 KURT VONNEGUT
The incredible destruction of World War II set off his disillusion

with what was passing for “progress” in post-War America. “I
learned how vile that religion of mine could be when the atomic
bomb was dropped on Hiroshima” (Palm Sunday 69). General
Electric’s research labs were at the forefront of new ideas and
technology, and he saw first-hand how technology came to the
detriment of parts of society:
One day I came across an engineer who had developed a milling

machine that could be run by punch cards. Now at the time,
milling machinists were among the best paid machinists in the
world, and yet this damned machine could do as good a job as any
of the machinists ever could. I looked around, then, and found
looms and spinning machines and a number of textile devices all
being run the same way and, well, the implications were
sensational. (Conversations 199)
These negative experiences at General Electric have their place as

one of the driving factors behind his decision to turn to writing.
Others Vonnegut worked with in public relations were also
aspiring writers, but few put in as much time. “I disliked my job
at General Electric and in order to quit and hang on to my
family I wrote short stories on weekends and nights”
(Conversations 51).
But besides his general discontent with his job, Vonnegut cites
other reasons for his turn to writing. He felt he had something to
say after witnessing the destruction of Dresden in the war, though
for a time, he wasn’t sure if he had seen anything special:
When I got home (I was a writer since I had been on the Cornell
Sun except that was the extent of my writing) I thought of writing
my war story, too. All my friends were home; they’d had wonderful
adventures, too. I went down to the newspaper office, the
Indianapolis News, and I looked to find out what they had about
Dresden. There was an item about half an inch long, which said
our planes had been over Dresden and two had been lost. And so I
figured, well, this really was the most minor sort of detail in World
War II.... But every so often I would meet a European and we

would be talking about the war and I would say I was in Dresden;
he’d be astonished that I’d been there, and he’d always want to
know more. Then a book by David Irving was published about
Dresden, saying it was the largest massacre in European history. I
said, by God, I saw something after all! I would try to write my
story, whether it was interesting or not, and try to make something
out of it. (Hayman et al. 69)
The story, of course, would become Slaughterhouse-Five, though it

wouldn’t appear until 1969, twenty years later.
Vonnegut also cites his mother’s failed writing career as a reason
he took up the craft. “She was a good writer,” Vonnegut admits for
the Paris Review, “but she had no talent for the vulgarity the slick
magazines required. Fortunately, I was loaded with vulgarity, so
when I grew up, I was able to make her dream come true”
(Hayman et al. 76).
In February of 1950, Vonnegut’s first short fiction was pub-
lished in Collier’s magazine. His early success was partly due to
healthy demand for creative fiction at the time (venues like
Collier’s and the Saturday Evening Post would publish five or more
short stories a week), and partly due to the willingness of editors to
nurture young authors. “When I was working for General Electric,
I wrote a story, ‘Report on the Barnhouse Effect,’ the first story I
ever wrote. I mailed it off to Collier’s. Knox Burger was fiction
editor there. Knox told me what was wrong and how to fix it. I
did what he said, and he bought the story for seven-hundred fifty
dollars, six weeks pay at GE” (Hayman et al. 96).
Knox Burger would do much to aid Vonnegut in his early
career, including introducing the young writer to Kenneth
Littauer, an agent and former Collier’s editor, and Max
Wilkinson, a story editor for MGM. Vonnegut contends that
Burger “discovered and encouraged more good young writers
than any other editor of his time” (Hayman et al. 96), and it is to
Burger that Vonnegut dedicates his collection of short stories,
Welcome to the Monkey House:
24 KURT VONNEGUT
Ten days older than I am.

He has been a very good
Father to me.
But it was Littauer who worked most closely with the young author
on technique and craft. “I was a very earnest student writer and had
a teacher,” Vonnegut later said in an interview, “Kenneth Littauer,
an old-time magazine and editor…. I learned from Littauer about
pace and point of view, things that are discussed in Writer’s Digest,
decent and honorable things to know” (Conversations 158).
Many critics maintain that “Report on the Barnhouse Effect” is
one of Vonnegut’s best fictions. Written in a journalistic style
comfortable to Vonnegut, it tells the story of Professor Arthur
Barnhouse, who discovers what he calls dynamopsychism (the
“Barnhouse Effect”), which is the ability to move objects with his
mind. “By my calculations,” the narrator explains, “the professor
was about fifty-five times more powerful than a Nagasaki-type
atomic bomb at the time he went into hiding” (Welcome to the
Monkey House 174). Barnhouse is quickly seen as an asset to hawks
in the armed services, so he goes underground, using his power to
effect peace by destroying weapons in countries around the world.
Barnhouse’s death means the imminent return of weapons and
war, yet when the story ends we know his assistant, through whom
the story is told, has attained some of the powers held by the
erstwhile professor.
Even in this his first of stories, Vonnegut explores the nature of
scientific progress and its relationship to destruction and war.
That the world’s arsenal will be inevitably rebuilt unless
checked—that the government rejects the use of Barnhouse’s
powers to bring rain to arid lands and prefers instead its use in
military tactics—shows his essential pessimism about the human
condition. Many of Vonnegut’s characteristic narrative
techniques, too, first show up in “Barnhouse.” A first person
narrator who maintains some distance throughout the story, but
who jumps into the action by the end will become one of
Vonnegut’s most successful ways of telling.
“Report on the Barnhouse Effect” contains biographical
elements worth noting. In The Short Fiction of Kurt Vonnegut,

Vonnegut scholar Peter Reed points out that:
Barnhouse’s suggestion for moving clouds to drought-stricken areas

echoes Vonnegut’s brother Bernard’s pioneer work in cloud seed.
The narrator is a veteran of overseas service and works in a
laboratory. And the prediction of Barnhouse’s mortality because he
comes of short-lived stock sounds reminiscent of Vonnegut’s own
tendency to make life predictions for himself and others based on
parental lifespans. (Reed 30)
Vonnegut injects himself quite often into his works, a technique

that pays the greatest dividends in Slaughterhouse-Five but which
continues to his last novel, Timequake.
“If ‘Report on the Barnhouse Effect’ borders on science fiction,
or science fiction with parapsychological overtones,” Reed
suggests, “the next story, ‘Thanosphere,’ goes further” (30). And so
would many Vonnegut stories. He in fact seems drawn to the
genre—almost against his will—and in interviews and essays he
appears taken aback when he is classified as such. “There was no
avoiding it,” Vonnegut resolves in his 1973 Playboy interview,
“since the General Electric company was science fiction”
(Conversations 193).
PLAYER PIANO
Vonnegut wrote in a 1965 article for the New York Times: “Years
ago I was working in Schenectady for General Electric, completely
surrounded by machines, so I wrote a novel about people and
machines, and machines frequently got the best of it, as machines
will…. And I learned from reviewers that I was a science fiction
writer” (September 5, 1965).
Having published several stories, Vonnegut left his steady GE
paycheck in 1951, moving his family to Cape Cod. Player Piano
appeared in 1952, and was marketed exclusively to science fiction
consumers. That his first novel was printed directly to paperback
(like countless other science fiction novels of the time) loomed
large over his work for the duration of his career. He struggled first
26 KURT VONNEGUT
to gain a wider recognition for his work, to break out of the loyal
but limited science fiction following; but even once his writing
gained popular attention, Vonnegut would meet yet more
resistance from academics, some of whom considered him little
more than a slick writer who got lucky.
Like many of the short stories Vonnegut was writing at the
time, Player Piano finds its genesis in the remarkable speed with
which American industry raced forward after World War II. Its
protagonist, Paul Proteus, is a 35-year-old executive who ought to
relish his position in the “ruling class” of the technocracy
Vonnegut describes, yet in spite of the utopian talk of nearly
everyone around him, Proteus has reservations about how good
things really are:
Objectively, Paul tried to tell himself, things really were better than
ever. For once, after the great bloodbath of the war, the world
really was cleared of unnatural terrors—mass starvation, mass
imprisonment, mass torture, mass murder. Objectively, know-how
and world law were getting their long-awaited chance to turn earth
into an altogether pleasant and convenient place in which to sweat
out Judgment Day. (Player Piano 14)
Vonnegut explained the creative impetus for this project in a

1993 interview: “What if all economically useful work could be
done more cheaply and satisfactorily by machines than by human
beings?” (Reed and Leeds, 36). In Player Piano, Vonnegut
postulates that the mechanization of society exists to the detriment
of human dignity.
War is central to the plot of Player Piano. This is evident from
the first lines, which allude to Julius Caesar’s first commentary on
the Gallic Wars:
Ilium, New York, is divided into three parts.

In the northwest are the managers and engineers and civil
servants and a few professional people; in the northeast are the
machines; and in the south, across the Iroquois River, is the area
known locally as Homestead, where almost all of the people live. (9)
The story takes place ten years after the Third World War, and it
figures heavily in the novel as the reason society mechanized so
quickly. This begins a long line of Vonnegutian novels where
war—or apocalyptic destruction of some form—is presented
intrinsic to technological or scientific advance. Vonnegut scholar
David Seed notes that Ilium is connected to a history of war, and
that war is presented numerous times in the novel as an agent of
social change. This social change, this future exists only at the
expense of democracy. Vonnegut tells us that it was know-how
that won the war, that an industrial machine functioning without
manpower saved democracy. But ironically this post-war society is
anything but democratic. The men and women that went away to
fight returned to find that their jobs were now being done exclus-
ively by machines, and so resigned themselves to an idle and
inconsequential life in Homestead. Almost everyone has two
choices for employment: join the Army, or work in the
Reclamation and Reconstruction Corps doing menial labor. The
fictional Ilium, New York, demonstrates the segregation of this
America even in its geography, with a river separating the elite
from the latter-day proletariat. The novel questions the human
cost of this environment, absent societal ills (as Proteus tries to
remind himself ) notwithstanding.
By the same mechanics of progress that put the populace out of
work, the few employed managers and engineers find their
positions threatened as well. A second industrial revolution saw
the replacement of white collar minds by computers. This
accounts for most of the people living across the river in
Homestead. Paul Proteus realizes that an imminent “Third
Revolution in Industry,” in which artificial intelligence would
replace brass in even the highest echelons of the corporate world,
presents the greatest danger to this “utopia.”
Paul’s suspicions of the virtues of an automated society arrive as
he’s being considered for a hefty promotion—the preoccupation of
his mechanical wife, Anita—and coincide with the return of an
old friend, Ed Finnerty, who had moved on to bigger and better
things in Washington. Fed up with the system, Finnerty has quit
his post, and serves to show Paul the possibility of rebellion.
28 KURT VONNEGUT
Opposite Finnerty is Paul’s boss Kroner, an old friend of Paul’s late

father, who was “the nation’s first National Industrial,
Commercial, Communications, Foodstuffs, and Resources
Director, a position approached in importance only by the
presidency of the United States” (Player Piano 10).
Finnerty will take an uncertain Proteus “underground”—a
recurring move in Vonnegut’s literature—and introduces him to a
rebels called the Ghost Shirt Society, a Luddite group of sorts
dedicated to smashing machines. Kroner, meanwhile, is presented
as a surrogate father, drawing Paul toward complicity with the
corporate technocracy.
The novel is punctuated by observations from the visiting
potentate, the Shah of Bratphur, “spiritual leader of the 6,000,000
members of the Kolhouri sect,” who “had left his military and
spiritual fastness in the mountains to see what he could learn in the
most powerful nation on earth for the good of his people” (26).
The Shah is the first of many characters in Vonnegut’s novels that
exist to add an outsider’s commentary to the situations presented in
the story. Partly for his childlike—if often accurate—observations
on what he sees in America, the Shah is a major source of the
comical material in Player Piano. The use of humor and hyperbole
has been a part of Vonnegut’s writing since his high school and
college days, and it becomes a hallmark in his novels.
Other characters in Vonnegut’s novels become mouthpieces for
the author, and in Player Piano, it is the chaplain of the
Reclamation and Reconstruction Corps, James Lasher, who
provides anthropological explanations for the society we see, and
adds perspective by lending insight into, say, the relationship of
the nineteenth century Plains Indians to the masses in Homestead.
No doubt informed by Vonnegut’s graduate work at the University
of Chicago, characters like Lasher theorize on the circumstances
and then tell us about them. It is a role assumed in Vonnegut’s
later novels by his surrogate, Kilgore Trout.
With one foot in the Ghost Shirt Society and the other in
corporate brass, Proteus is asked to be a spy by the current
National Industrial, Commercial, Communications, Foodstuffs,
and Resources Director, Dr. Frances Gelhorne, through his
contacts with Finnerty. He is to be “fired,” infiltrate the group,

and gather information for Gelhorne. Disgusted, Proteus quits,
though his resignation is taken as enthusiasm for the role. Paul is
drugged by Finnerty and Lasher, though his heart is with them
anyway, and at their behest he becomes a Messiah to the Ghost
Shirt Society. Thus Paul becomes a double agent, a scheme
Vonnegut would often revisit in his novels, allowing a character to
see things that are often overlooked by others. This features most
heavily in Mother Night, where almost every character is operating
under more than one identity. Paul is captured by Kroner’s men
and put on trial for treason. At the end of the novel the Ghost
Shirts do lead a rebellion, though the drunken mob is quickly
quelled. “Like most satires,” writes William Rodney Allen in
Understanding Kurt Vonnegut, “the novel concludes with the world
in pretty much the same old mess” (35).
Player Piano is generally read as a satire of the post-war
optimism of the 50’s, when the industrial inertia that carried the
United States through the war continued into peacetime. At the
time of publication, however, it was received as little more than
mediocre science fiction, and Vonnegut’s harshest critics still see
the book as just that. Clearly, though, Vonnegut is making a
statement about the blind speed of post-war industrialization,
along with the perceived willingness of American culture to
embrace this movement.
Vonnegut also parodies other aspects of the world he found
himself writing in. He plays into the fifties fascination with Freud
and psychoanalysis in describing the corporate state in often sexual
terms. Kroner is presented as a father figure to everyone in the
Eastern Division, though Paul is most sensitive to this role,
perhaps since Kroner was friends with his own father. At his trial,
Paul admits to being the leader of the Ghost Shirt Society, but the
prosecutor argues that Paul is suffering from an Oedipus complex,
and so his rebellion against the corporate state was actually one
against his father (an argument Proteus accepts). The
McCarthyesque trial indicates Vonnegut’s larger satire of
anticommunist hysteria. William Rodney Allen notes several
lexical turns that allude to this:
30 KURT VONNEGUT
Lasher refers to those in the movement as ‘fellow travelers,’ a

phrase for communists widely recognized in the 1950’s. Paul feels
the effects of being “blacklisted” in the way many suspected
communists did in McCarthy’s time, when they suddenly could
not find work. When Paul returns to Ilium and begins to frequent
the Homestead Bar, where he met Lasher, he is drugged by
Finnerty and Lasher with “truth serum,” an obsessive concern of
anticommunists in the 1950s who feared brainwashing techniques
involving drugging the victim, then submitting him to communist
indoctrination. (Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 32)
Considering, then, that so much of Player Piano takes its cues

from the 50’s America Vonnegut saw, it is not as much a science
fiction novel as it is an exaggeration of the times. Vonnegut is not
attempting to show us the future, like Huxley and Orwell in Brave
New World and 1984, but to make a statement about the present
by hyperbole. With his first novel, Vonnegut speaks of the dangers
of technological advance and war, of the relationship between
meaningful work and dignity, and—since the rebellion does
indeed fail at the end—his skepticism of mass movements, even if
he is on their side.
His next novel, The Sirens of Titan, would not appear until
1959, seven years later. Vonnegut published twenty-seven stories
in the years between these novels, though despite appearing
regularly in Collier’s and the Saturday Evening Post, by 1954 he was
taking various jobs to supplement his income. He taught English
at the Hopefield School in Sandwich, Massachusetts. He did
freelance public relations writing, specifically for the K. Thomas
Chirurgy ad agency which, as an industrial account, utilized his
experience at General Electric. He opened one of the first Saab
dealerships in the United States. He also worked on a second novel
titled “Upstairs and Downstairs,” though that work would never
be finished.
Collier’s capsized later in the decade, publishing its last issue on
January 4, 1957. Vonnegut has always expressed concern about the
imbalance between supply and demand for printed fiction, citing
“that goddamn machine, television, which is the principle teacher
here” (Reed and Leeds, 29) as the prime culprit. Finding less outlets
for his writing, Vonnegut turned toward more exclusively science
fiction venues such as Galaxy and Fantasy as a source for income.
Along with the 1954 retitle of Player Piano as Utopia-14, it is the
“hack” writing Vonnegut produced in this period that would tinge
his name among later critics. In his 1977 treatment of Vonnegut’s
novels, Richard Giannone writes that:
When he was serious, that work was met with misunderstanding.

As a rule, misjudgment is not surprising for innovative writers; and
as for Vonnegut, who had an active commercial reputation to color
the reaction to his work, a misreading of his deeper intention is
expected…. We would do well, however, not to interpret
Vonnegut’s publishing history in light of his present wealthy
eminence with its special prerogatives, and to resist the urge to
turn his publishers into villains and his motives into artistic
compromises. Vonnegut needed the money, which he earned by
writing. (Giannone 6-7)
Harsher critics aside, Vonnegut himself seems to focus on this part

of his career, as themes of artists who do compromise their
talents—for a variety of reasons—pepper many of his novels.
The death of Vonnegut’s father in October 1957 was the first
personal tragedy to rail the author in the late fifties. A year later,
his sister Alice died of lung cancer at the age of 41; her death
came just one day after her husband, John Adams, was killed in a
train crash. The Vonneguts adopted three of their four children
(the youngest, at one year of age, was raised by a cousin of the
father), adding to three of their own. With six children and a
desiccating market for his short stories, Vonnegut would turn
again to the novel.
THE SIRENS OF TITAN

The fantastic tale of The Sirens of Titan (1959) was made up on
the spot at a cocktail party, as Richard Todd wrote in the New York
Times Magazine:
32 KURT VONNEGUT
It began, Vonnegut said, at a party, when a publishing house editor

asked, “Why don’t you write another book?” Vonnegut said, “Well,
I have an idea for one.” “Tell me about it,” said the editor, and
they went into a bedroom. “I had no idea at all for a book,”
Vonnegut recalls, “but I started talking and told him the story of
Sirens of Titan [sic]. Every mother’s favorite child is the one that’s
delivered by natural childbirth. Sirens of Titan is that kind of book”
(Conversations 35)
The Sirens of Titan is a helter-skelter space odyssey that races its

dual protagonists all over the solar system. Like Player Piano, it
was written directly to paperback contract, and with its
provocative cover, sold on drugstore checkout shelves as a “dirty”
book. Even though today The Sirens of Titan is an integral title in
the Vonnegut canon, it is, after all, an early novel, and it reads as
such. “Not surprisingly,” Allen writes, “the Sirens of Titan [sic]
showed the ill effects of Vonnegut’s long layoff from novel writing
since Player Piano. While Player Piano is a tightly focused satire of
corporate life, The Sirens of Titan finally lacks a coherent center”
(Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 35).
Certainly Player Piano and The Sirens of Titan are worlds apart.
Sirens begins with the richest man in the world, Malachi Constant,
fed up with his life of booze and women, being told an
extraordinary prophecy by one Winston Niles Rumfoord.
Rumfoord, we find out, has by galactic accident entered a
“chrono-synclastic infundibulum,” a Vonnegutian whimsy. In the
preface for his 1970 play Happy Birthday, Wanda June, he describes
it as the “mathematical point where all opinions, no matter how
contradictory, harmonized” (Happy Birthday, Wanda June ix). Due
to flying his spaceship into one of these things, Rumfoord (and his
dog) “are scattered far and wide, not just through space, but
through time, too” (The Sirens of Titan 14-15), which lets him see
all events of time—including the future.
Rumfoord tells Constant that he will go to Mars with Beatrice,
Rumfoord’s wife, and that Constant will father a child by her.
Despite efforts by Malachi and Beatrice to avoid this fate, all
efforts are futile, because “everything that has ever been will always
be, and everything that ever will be has always been” (Sirens 26).
(This Tralfamadorian view of time, and the fatalism inherent in it,
prefigures Vonnegut’s use of the construct in Slaughterhouse-Five.)
Often described as a space opera, the action in Sirens includes just
about every cliché the sci-fi genre has to offer. Kidnapped and
brainwashed by Martians, Constant becomes a pawn in the planned
invasion of earth; a trip to Mercury introduces strange creatures
called harmoniums, and we meet giant bluebirds on Titan.
We find out that Rumfoord has orchestrated the whole
convoluted series of events, using his power to establish a new
religion, the Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. Tony Tanner
notes in his foundational criticism of Vonnegut’s novels that
Rumfoord, “with his new-found power to arrange things to suit
his patterns, to handle time and space as he pleases and put people
where he wants them…is a suitably fantastic analogue of
Vonnegut himself, who is doing just that in his book” (Tanner
298). His Messiah is Malachi, who carries to earth his message of
human insignificance in the universe, that free will is a
preposterous notion, that everything is determined by chance. “I
was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all” (Sirens 229),
Malachi tells the world.
Even the manipulative Rumfoord is the pawn of greater forces.
(Rumfoord, incidentally, is the first embodiment of Vonnegut’s
use of the “historical” character. He resembles Franklin Delano
Roosevelt not only in appearance, but by exaggeration and
behavior. Just as Roosevelt enacted his huge and controlling New
Deal in the interest of raising the standard of living, Rumfoord
uses his powers to manipulate people for what he feels is their own
good.) Ironically, Rumfoord—along with most of human
history—is all part of the plan of a robot race called the
Tralfamadorians to carry a message from one side of the universe
to the other, whose messenger, Salo, broke down on Saturn’s moon
Titan. Achievements of humanity are explained as attempts by the
Tralfamadorians to contact Salo. Stonehenge and the Great Wall of
China tell Salo to ‘be patient,’ or that replacement parts are on the
way. The trivialization of human existence is underscored by the
Tralfamadorian message itself: “Greetings.”
34 KURT VONNEGUT
Clearly Vonnegut is satirizing religious fundamentalism in The

Sirens of Titan. Instead of placing events as meaningful extensions
of God’s will, the Church of God the Utterly Indifferent preaches
the place of meaningless luck in all events. But even though belief
systems are futile in terms of efficacy, like the Ghost Shirt Society
of Player Piano, they’re shown as crucial to establishing a sense of
purpose in individuals. “Religious creeds are mendacious but
nevertheless necessary inventions that cannot explain the
meaning of a world which has no meaning,” Peter Freese has it,
“but that are necessary to provide man with the sense of purpose
and direction without which he cannot live” (Reed and Leeds
150). The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent is thus a
precursor to Vonnegut’s larger examination of the function of
religion in Cat’s Cradle.
Freese estimates another message in Sirens: that “scientific
attempts at understanding and mastering the universe
inadvertently lead to disaster and self-extermination.” Cataclysm
and destruction are everywhere in Vonnegut’s fiction, and these
disasters are intrinsically tied to the proliferation of science and
technology. And since human beings cannot help but attempt to
understand their world, an essentially pessimistic outlook is
advanced in almost all of Vonnegut’s novels.
If it is surprising to find such deep questions on the nature of
human existence in a book whose original cover depicted
“machine monsters and semi-nude young women tumbling
together in an asteroid belt” (Klinkowitz, Kurt Vonnegut 40), it is
even more surprising to find attempts to answer those questions.
Perhaps the best formulation of Vonnegut’s post-Christian ethics,
his attempt to rationalize existence in lieu of religion, is Malachi
Constant’s resolution that “the purpose of human life, no matter
who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved”
(Sirens 313). One of the few bright spots on the dim palette of
Vonnegut’s fiction is the place of decency, humanity, and kindness
in a modus vivendi.
William Allen calls The Sirens of Titan a worthwhile failure,
since it at least introduces the reader to elements of Vonnegut’s
writing style that would become his shibboleths (Understanding
Kurt Vonnegut 41). Short, simple paragraphs, an abundance of

jokes, and a fabric of metafictional tropes (including his insistence
that “all persons, places, and events in this book are real”) would
become Vonnegut mainstays.
MOTHER NIGHT
It is easy to view Mother Night (1962) as a complete departure
from Vonnegut’s previous writing—with its rather mundane plot
(relatively speaking, of course) surrounding a man who works as
both a German propagandist and an American spy during World
War II—but this view leaves out a number of more domestic short
stories he wrote in the dozen years before its publication.
Mother Night, too, was written under paperback contract, and
many readers mistook it for a nonfiction confessional novel about
the war, the likes of which were in vogue at the time. Allen
attributes the striking contrast between “the unfocused, even
sprawling quality of The Sirens of Titan and the tautness of Mother
Night” to the structure and direction provided by the first-person
point of view (Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 44–45), a form which
brought Vonnegut success as early as his first story, “Report on the
Barnhouse Effect.”
The protagonist, Howard W. Campbell, Jr., is an American
born in Schenectady, New York, whose father was an engineer for
General Electric. His father’s job took the family to Germany in
1923, when he was eleven years old; he assimilated to German
society, eventually taking a German wife and writing plays in the
German language. When the Second World War broke out his
parents left the country, but Campbell stayed on, and through the
war he worked “as a writer and broadcaster of Nazi propaganda to
the English-speaking world” (Mother Night 32–33). Yet he also
acted as an American agent, sending coded messages though his
broadcasts out of Germany in a series of punctuated coughs,
pauses, and the like, delivering important intelligence to the
Allies. Though Nazis had been among his close friends and
patrons as a playwright, Campbell romantically believes he can
avoid politics before the war, even dreaming up a play about him
and his wife called Das Reich der Zwei—Nation of Two—about
36 KURT VONNEGUT
“how a pair of lovers in a world gone mad could survive by being

loyal only to a nation composed of themselves” (37). Campbell
only assumes the views of a Nazi after he is asked by a Major from
the United States War Department to work as an agent. He resists
at first, but the Major wins him over with talk of good and evil,
pure hearts and heroes. Campbell agrees, but his true motives are
telling:
He didn’t mention the best reason for expecting me to go on and

be a spy. The best reason was that I was a ham. As a spy of the sort
he described, I would have an opportunity for some pretty grand
acting. I would fool everyone with my brilliant interpretation of a
Nazi, inside and out. (41)
In line with Vonnegut’s admonition in the 1966 introduction

to Mother Night, “we are what we pretend to be, so we must be
careful what we pretend to be,” Campbell’s decision to play Nazi
sets up the central question in the novel: Is Campbell a good guy
or a bad guy? His work for the Allies would save him from the
gallows after the war, but what is he really: an American hero or a
Nazi propagandist? Through Campbell’s ambiguous moral status,
Vonnegut is asking more broadly where our authentic identities
may be when we assume any sort of fiction for ourselves.
Vonnegut uses the vantage point of the double agent in his first
novel to show sides of the story invisible to other characters. In
Mother Night, the double agent device does that and then some.
Practically everyone is working under double identities in the
novel, which shows that the double self “is a device of survival
much more in use at the present time than we realize” (Tanner
302). This functional schizophrenia among so many characters
makes universal Vonnegut’s notion that people tend to create
fictions for themselves, one he explores often in later works.
Vonnegut further examines the role of the writer in Mother
Night. As Tanner points out, “it is part of Vonnegut’s meaning to
suggest that the artist cannot rest confidently in the harmlessness
of his inventions” (303). Certainly Vonnegut understood the
similarities between public relations writing and propaganda; his
comments on the function of writers as agents of social change

(Conversations 76) underscore the level of responsibility he assigns
to Campbell in Mother Night. But moreover, the fallibility of
communication itself suggested in the novel by the (mis)use of
various texts indicates early elements of postmodernism in
Vonnegut’s writing. The prevalence of black humor, and the act of
stepping into the work himself (as he would in the introduction to
the hardcover edition) aligns him with his postmodernist
contemporaries.
Vonnegut’s notions of fate and chance—along with his
upbringing in a tight-knit German-American family so conscious
of its origins—dictate much of the affinity between himself and
Campbell in Mother Night. In the introduction he writes: “If I’d
been born in Germany, I suppose I would have been a Nazi,
bopping Jews and gypsies and Poles around, leaving boots sticking
out of snowbanks, warming myself with my secretly virtuous
insides” (Mother Night vii). Campbell’s implied suicide at the
novel’s conclusion, too, originates with Vonnegut’s mother’s
suicide in 1944; Vonnegut has said that it weighs heavily on his
mind, as it must for all children of suicides, and it is telling that
“Campbell’s earlier attempt to escape into art is, in retrospect,
made to appear rather equivocal” (Tanner 303).
The 1966 introduction marks Vonnegut’s first description of
his experiences in Dresden in print, and with much of Mother
Night taking place in World War II Germany, we may presume
that at this time Vonnegut is nearly ready to set down his war story
in Slaughterhouse-Five. But while Mother Night may have prepared
Vonnegut for Slaughterhouse-Five thematically, it is the brave,
experimental narration of his next novel, Cat’s Cradle, that would
supply him with the style to tell Slaughterhouse-Five so effectively.
CHAPTER TH R E E
Call Me Jonah
Our society seems to engender a cadre of

wonderfully motivated people who want earnestly to
take charge and get things done. Conversely, I
understand that in Paper Utopias like Cuba, people
continually manage to forget to grease the trucks or
get into the fields on time. What they obviously need
is a more generous serving of the type of nuts we
turn our enterprises over to—or who claw their way
into control of them.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Conversations
IN THE 1960S, THINGS BEGAN to look up for Kurt Vonnegut.

Mother Night appeared in paperback in 1962, though it carried a
copyright date of 1961, and Canary in a Cat House was released
in paperback that same year, reprinting many of Vonnegut’s short
stories written for magazines in the fifties. The Sirens of Titan was
reissued in hardback in 1961, too, becoming Vonnegut’s first
novel printed in hardcover. Still, the declining short story market
that first went sour in the late fifties proved to never recover, and
Vonnegut’s once lucrative short story career became non-existent.
Publishing just three short stories in 1961, only two in 1962, and
one in 1963, Vonnegut’s financial situation became dire. He
38
CALL ME JONAH 39
wrote Cat’s Cradle to another paperback contract, and it was

published in 1963.
CAT’S CRADLE
If Slaughterhouse-Five is Vonnegut’s masterpiece, Cats Cradle is a
close runner-up. One can see Vonnegut getting it right: the tight,
focused satire of Player Piano reconciled with epic humor and
odyssey of The Sirens of Titan, told effectively in the first person by
a narrator who joins the action as the story progresses. It is a
bitterly funny book, but one that captures Vonnegut’s pessimism,
his derision toward mankind—and its tendency to self-destruct—
more than any of his novels before. Still, it received little critical
attention, never outselling the original 6,000 copy print run; it
would not be appreciated at the level it deserved until
Slaughterhouse-Five forced critics back to his earlier works.
Cat’s Cradle is doubtlessly informed by Vonnegut’s truncated
master’s work in anthropology at the University of Chicago.
While his thesis, “Fluctuations of Good and Evil in Simple
Tales,” which consisted of graphing the “shape” of popular story
plots as diverse as Native American creation myths, fairy tales
like Cinderella, and the narratives of the Bible, was unanimously
rejected by the Anthropology Department in 1947, Vonnegut
came away with a sense of cultural relativism, accepting all
cultures and their belief systems as equally valid. Chicago’s
anthropology department in the forties was imbibed with this
way of thinking. Vonnegut explains, “Religions were exhibited
and studied as the Rube Goldberg inventions I’d always though
they were. We weren’t allowed to find one culture superior to any
other” (Hayman et al. 81). Besides “confirming his atheism,” it
freed Vonnegut to comment on American belief systems by
creating his own, most explicitly, Bokononism in Cat’s Cradle,
The Church of Jesus Christ the Kidnapped in Slapstick, and the
Church of God the Utterly Indifferent in The Sirens of Titan. In
James Whitlark’s analysis of Vonnegut’s use and contributions
to anthropology, he claims that cultural relativism allows the
writer to create by “juxtapos[ing] patterns from many societies
against science fiction ‘alternatives to our society.’” This allows
40 KURT VONNEGUT
him to use old plots and still make a new statement on society
(Whitlark 4).
More than humorous tropes in Vonnegut’s fiction, these
contrived belief systems are at the heart of his satirical process. In
Cat’s Cradle, one of the “old plots” is that of the Cinderella story.
Here, the character experiences successive escalations of status:
Cinderella is systematically raised by gift upon gift culminating in
meeting the prince at the ball; the narrator of Cat’s Cradle rises to
become President of the pseudo-paradise of San Lorenzo and takes
Mona, the most beautiful women on the island as his wife. But
where Cinderella is tragically reverted to a plain-clothed peasant at
the stroke of midnight and then redeemed by the true love of the
prince, the narrator of Cat’s Cradle is robbed of everything, and,
since all life on earth is destroyed, redemption is impossible. The
“new statement” is that belief systems of any kind are contrivances,
and that nothing—not even love—is capable of bringing about
salvation. Vonnegut’s master’s work comparing tales showed that
Cinderella’s rise, fall at the stroke of midnight, and re-escalation is
identical to the Biblical fall and “rise to bliss ... with the
expectation of redemption as expressed in primitive Christianity”
(Palm Sunday 315). Cat’s Cradle denies the possibility of any
redemption, Christian, Bokononist, or otherwise. His version of
the Cinderella story excludes the happy ending.
The narrator of Cat’s Cradle, who says in the first lines of the
book that his name is John but it might as well be Jonah, is
introduced as a freelance writer who sets out to write a book called
The Day the World Ended. Concerning the dawn of the atomic age,
“[i]ts contents will be limited to events that took place on August
6, 1945, the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima” (Cat’s
Cradle 14). But while researching one apocalypse, Jonah/John
witnesses another, becoming the last living thing on an earth
destroyed by a compound called ice-nine that, by a complicated
series of accidents, crystallizes all of the water on earth.
Even in the first pages of the book, an affinity between the
narrator and Vonnegut himself is evident. Jonah and Vonnegut
share the same profession, and belong to the same chapter of the
same fraternity. The connection was originally conceived to be
CALL ME JONAH 41
even more patent: Vonnegut “toyed with the idea of having his
narrator find the Vonnegut name on an old tombstone,” but, since
readers would know that the tombstone bears the narrator’s last
name, too, “editors talked Vonnegut out of the idea as being too
radical” (Klinkowitz, Vonnegut in Fact 111).
Jonah’s search for material for The Day the World Ended leads
him to contact Newt Hoenikker, son of the late Dr. Felix
Hoenikker, one of the “fathers” of the atomic bomb. Hoenikker
serves Vonnegut as a symbol of scientific irresponsibility, a man so
withdrawn from humanity and so focused on childish play with
nature that he has no perspective on the effects of his creations,
and a total apathy for their uses. In Hoenikker, Vonnegut vilifies
the moral irresponsibility of scientists he first witnessed in the
research labs of General Electric. Vonnegut says in his 1973
Playboy interview that General Electric scientists “were all
innocent, all simply dealing with truth and not worried about
what might be done with their discoveries.... But [now] they’ve
learned that anything they turn up will be applied if it can be. It’s
a law of life that if you turn up something that can be used
violently, it will be used violently,” (Conversations 97). Over the
course of the novel we find that in his playfulness, Dr. Hoenikker
created a substance even more pernicious than the atomic bomb,
called ice-nine. Developed for the Marines to assuage, of all
things, mud, ice-nine crystallizes water at room temperature.
Hoenikker develops the substance in secret, “his last batch of
brownies” (42) before he dies, and his children divide the tiny chip
among the three of them. They all, in time, trade their pieces of
this compound that would turn all the rivers, oceans, rain,
people—anything containing water—into solid ice, in exchange
for what they perceive to be love. Clearly, the Hoenikker children
are trying to obtain something they were never able to get from
their distant father.
Hoenikker’s character is admittedly based on real-life General
Electric scientist and Nobel Prize winner Irving Langmuir,
described as “childlike in social relationships and claimed that he
was simply unearthing the truth, that the truth could never hurt
human beings and that he wasn’t interested in the application of
42 KURT VONNEGUT
whatever he turned up” (Conversations 97). Vonnegut recalls in his

“self-interview” that Langmuir is even responsible for some of
Hoenikker’s more endearing examples of absent-mindedness, and
the origin of the concept of ice-nine:
[Langmuir] wondered out loud one time whether, when turtles

pulled in their heads, their spines buckled or contracted. I put that
in the book. One time he left a tip under his plate after his wife
served him breakfast at home. I put that in. His most important
contribution, though, was the idea for what I called “Ice-9,” a form
of frozen water that was stable at room temperature. He didn’t tell
it directly to me. It was a legend around the laboratory—about the
time H.G. Wells came to Schenectady.... Langmuir was told to be
his host. Langmuir thought he might entertain Wells with an idea
for a science-fiction story—about a form of ice that was stable at
room temperature. Wells was uninterested, or at least never used
the idea. And then Wells died, and then, finally, Langmuir died. I
though to myself: “Finders, keepers—the idea is mine.” (Hayman
et al. 83)
But for the extensive portrayal of Hoenikker’s absent mind and

absent humanity—one character wonders if Dr. Hoenikker “wasn’t
born dead,” saying he “never met a man less interested in living”
(Cat’s Cradle 53)—Hoenikker, whose discoveries brought about
two apocalypses, one local and the other global, is presented with
such adolescent qualities that his culpability is dubious at best.
This is a Vonnegutian hallmark: there are never villains in his
stories (Fates Worse Than Death 31).
Jonah follows the three Hoenikker children to the fictional
island of San Lorenzo, a poor, desolate anti-paradise, “as
unproductive as an equal area in the Sahara or the Polar Icecap,”
with “as dense a population as could be found anywhere, India
and China not excluded” (Cat’s Cradle 94). San Lorenzo was so
worthless, we are told, that when a marine deserter named Corp-
oral Earl McCabe and a hapless wandering Episcopalian named
Lionel Boyd Johnson wash up like flotsam on its shores in 1922
and announced that they are taking control, no one seems to
CALL ME JONAH 43
mind. In an effort to make San Lorenzo a Utopia, Johnson created

a new religion, Bokononism, so named because of the
pronunciation of “Johnson” in the inscrutable dialect of San
Lorenzo. Vonnegut’s ingenious use of metafictional techniques in
Cat’s Cradle has quotations from the Books of Bokonon and his
Calypsos throughout the novel, becoming in the end a holy book
itself.
Johnson/Bokonon described his motivations in one of his
Calypsos:
I wanted all things

To seem to make some sense,
So we could all be happy, yes,
Instead of tense.
And I made up lies
So that they all fit nice,
And I made this sad world
A par-a-dise. (90)
Complete with its own lexicon, Bokononism stands as one of

Vonnegut’s most ingenious fictions. The lies in the song above are
called foma, defined as harmless untruths, and if there is one basic
tenet of this religion it is Cat’s Cradle’s epigraph, “live by the foma
that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy” (4).
Bokononism, like all religions, is intended to give people a sense of
purpose, and for the wretched San Lorenzeans, the truth was so
terrible that “Bokonon made it his business to provide the people
with better and better lies.” Faith, Vonnegut is pointing out, is
based precisely on that which we do not know to be true, and this
bears nothing on its efficacy. We are warned of this rather
pessimistic message from the narrator early in the novel: “Anyone
unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies
will not understand this book either” (14).
Bokonon realized that in order to make himself and his new
religion attractive, he had to be seen against something more
diabolical. So he asked McCabe to outlaw him and his religion.
Bokonon’s persecution and perceived ability to “miraculously”
44 KURT VONNEGUT
escape McCabe’s manhunts made Bokononism immensely popular,

though it was outlawed, directly boosting the happiness of the
people. But, as in Mother Night, where people have a tendency to
become the fictions they create for themselves, Johnson/Bokonon
grows more insane in his role as “the gentle holy man in the
jungle,” and McCabe likewise as “the cruel tyrant in the city”
(119).
Like Rumfoord in The Sirens of Titan, Vonnegut’s message
through Bokononism traces the futility of looking for purpose in
events. Bokononism holds that “humanity is organized into teams,
teams that do God’s Will without ever discovering what they are
doing” (11). He calls this group a karass. (Vonnegut took the name
from the mailbox of his Cape Cod neighbor, whom he has never
met—it is Greek.) But even as these teams unwittingly do what
God wants them to, any effort to discern the purpose of the karass
is futile. Any effort to discern the purpose of anything is futile.
Bokonon demonstrates in a parable of sorts:
I once knew an Episcopalian lady in Newport, Rhode Island, who

asked me to design and build a doghouse for her Great Dane. The
lady claimed to understand God and His Ways of Working
perfectly. She could not understand why anyone should be puzzled
about what had been or about what was going to be.
And yet, when I showed her a blueprint of the doghouse I
proposed to build, she said to me, “I’m sorry, but I never could
read one of those things.”
“Give it to your husband or your minister to pass it on to God,”
I said, “and, when God finds a minute, I’m sure he’ll explain this
doghouse of mine in a way that even you could understand.”
She fired me. I shall never forget her. She believed that God
liked people in sailboats much better than He liked people in
motorboats. She could not bear to look at a worm. When she saw a
worm, she screamed.
She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees
what God is Doing, [writes Bokonon]. (13)
The foma in the idea of a karass is that the group is doing God’s
CALL ME JONAH 45
Will, which cannot be known. “Nowhere does Bokonon warn

against a person’s trying to discover the limits of their karass and
the nature of the work God Almighty has had it do,” the narrator
says. “Bokonon simply observes that such investigations are bound
to be incomplete” (12–13). Everything is meant to happen, and
we cannot know why. Attributing events or circumstances to God,
though, “makes you brave and kind and healthy and happy.” This
Bokononist notion that things happen because they happen—
stripped of any ostensible causality—foreshadows Billy Pilgrim’s
message in Slaughterhouse-Five.
Jonah’s karass materializes on San Lorenzo. Frank, the oldest of
Dr. Hoenikker’s offspring, has traded his piece of ice-nine for a
position in the island’s government. Its dictator, Papa Monzano,
sees the substance as a great way to blackmail foreign powers, and
makes Frank a Major General. Monzano is dying of cancer, and
Franklin Hoenikker is too shy to fulfill Monzano’s wish that he be
the next President. Frank puts Jonah up to it, and Jonah is swayed
only when he discovers that he will get to marry the island’s
beautiful poster-girl, Mona Aamons. Trying to avoid his slow,
painful death by cancer, Monzano swallows a chip of ice-nine, and
is frozen solid. By chance (like everything else in the novel), a
wayward plane from a patriotic display put on by San Lorenzo’s
Air Force crashes into Monzano’s palace before his body can be
disposed of. When it falls into the sea, the water of the world
freezes solid.
“Call me Jonah” (11), reads the first sentence of Cat’s Cradle.
Here are two allusions simultaneously. For one, the line echoes the
famous first line of Melville’s Moby Dick, who’s narrator, Ishmael,
becomes the only survivor of Ahab’s maddened quest for the great
whale. Just as Ishmael relates the incomprehensibility of Ahab’s
voyage—and by extension, the incomprehensibility of the
universe—Jonah becomes the last person on earth, and tells his
own message of the inscrutable workings of the universe. Rich,
also, is Vonnegut’s allusion to the Hebrew book of Jonah. Jonah’s
reaction to God’s call to prophecy has him run away from the city
he is supposed to prophecy to, Nineveh, jump ship to Tarshish, be
thrown into the sea by the ship’s crew in a storm, and spend three
46 KURT VONNEGUT
days in the belly of a fish. God delivers Jonah from the fish, and
this time, Jonah does go into Nineveh. The city is converted
entirely. Because of this, God appears to Jonah to be unreliable:
“When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil
ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said
he would bring upon them; and he did not do it” (Jonah 3:10).
Jonah, in fact, wishes for his own death rather than grapple with
the notion of an absolute God who can reverse his own perfect
proclamations. In the Jonah story, Vonnegut finds God’s
compassion and ineffability at loggerheads, and it is that theology,
that God’s intentions are at all times unpredictable, that he
incorporates into the Bokononism of Cat’s Cradle.
Giannone’s treatment of the use of the biblical tale of Jonah in
Cat’s Cradle takes Vonnegut’s intentions even further. The Book of
Jonah is idiosyncratic in the Hebrew Bible. Unlike other
prophetical books, Jonah contains not oracles and admonitions
about the wickedness of Israel and other nations, but is instead a
narrative about the prophet himself, and it shows Jonah saving the
town of Nineveh through preaching—it shows the prophet in
action; it shows the people of Nineveh changing their ways.
“Vonnegut implies through his novelistic use of Jonah that science
has led us so far astray that the enormous cry of Old Testament
prophecy is needed to correct the course of life” (Giannone 56). It
is the preaching, the form of this novel—unique as the book of
Jonah is unique—that is capable of deliverance.
Cat’s Cradle is indeed a new form of the novel itself. Allen notes
that Vonnegut’s massive paperback audience, earned through the
genre fiction of Player Piano, The Sirens of Titan, and Mother
Night, allowed him to teach “a new generation of readers”—the
college crowd that would bring him to the attention of the
Academy—“how to perceive fiction in a new way”
(Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 55). The “willing suspension of
disbelief,” the traditional theory of fiction from Coleridge to the
present, is exchanged for the book’s epigraph “Nothing in this
book is true” (Cat’s Cradle 4), and Bokonon’s “All of the true
things I am about to tell you are shameless lies” (14). Such meta-
fictional techniques, where the artist calls attention to his own
CALL ME JONAH 47
artifice, would be embraced by this new generation, ushering in

what is called postmodernist fiction.
Cat’s Cradle may well be Vonnegut’s most pessimistic book up
until this point. Its blatant account of the failure of science and
religion to circumvent human suffering leaves little hope for
humanity. Even love—the love between Jonah and Mona—fails to
provide a reason to stay alive.
GOD BLESS YOU, MR. ROSEWATER

The link between mental health and economics is present in much
of Vonnegut’s fiction, by the example of his parents. The Liebers,
Vonnegut’s mother’s family, had made a fortune operating a
brewery in Indianapolis, and her wedding to the young second-
generation architect, third-generation American Kurt Vonnegut
Sr. was one of the most extravagant affairs Indianapolis had ever
seen. Prohibition meant the end of the Lieber brewery, but the
Vonneguts lived well on an architect’s income, affording private
school for Kurt Jr.’s two older siblings, and the private Orchard
School for Vonnegut until 1936. But by then the family’s fortune
had subsided to the point that Kurt had to attend public high
school. The depreciation of wealth and status proved too much for
Vonnegut’s mother, who suffered from mental illness for years,
eventually committing suicide by an overdose of sleeping pills after
her youngest son went to war. Kurt Sr. took the economic decline
more spiritually, losing a sense of purpose as he failed to receive a
commission for years after the stock market crash of 1929. This
relationship between sanity and dignity is especially potent in God
Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.
The protagonist in the novel is Eliot Rosewater, heir to the
Rosewater fortune and President of the Rosewater Foundation, its
philanthropic arm. Eliot’s sanity is called into question by his
endless drinking, frequent wanderings, and finally his decision to
return to the family home in Rosewater, Indiana, where he devotes
the Rosewater fortune’s charities to the people of Rosewater
County. Much of the evidence for Rosewater’s mental degradation
we see through the eyes of Norman Mushari—as close to a villain
as Vonnegut comes to writing—a young lawyer with the firm that
48 KURT VONNEGUT
handles the Rosewater fortune. Mushari uses his privy to

Rosewater documents to see the fortune change hands, setting up
Fred Rosewater, a distant cousin, as heir, intending to take a
chunk of the vast sum along the way.
Maddened Eliot disappears from his sophisticated wife early in
the novel, reappearing in various parts of the country. He shows
up drunk at a science fiction writer’s convention in Pennsylvania.
His address to the crowd is Vonnegut’s defense of his craft:
I love you sons of bitches…. You’re all I read anymore. You’re the
only ones who’ll talk about the really terrific changes going on, the
only ones crazy enough to know that life is a space voyage, and not
a short one, either, but one that’ll last for billions of years. You’re
the only ones with guts enough to really care about the future, who
really notice what machines do to us, what wars do to us, what
cities do to us, what big, simple ideas do to us, what tremendous
misunderstandings, mistakes, accidents and catastrophes do to us.
You’re the only ones zany enough to agonize over time and
distances without limit, over mysteries that will never die, over the
fact that we are right now determining whether the space voyage
for the next billion years or so is going to be Heaven or Hell. (God
Bless You, Mr. Rosewater 18)
Eliot surfaces, too, at volunteer fire departments around the

country, genuinely trying to help out and making suggestions for
more effective firefighting. After a time, he winds up in ancestral
Rosewater County, seat of his family homestead, though his
father’s Senatorial duties have severed any ties to the place. What
Eliot sees convinces him of his vocation. “I look at these people,
these Americans,” Eliot tells his wife when first landing in
Rosewater, “and I realize that they can’t even care about themselves
anymore—because they have no use. The factory, the farms, the
mine across the river—they’re almost completely automatic now”
(36). Like the populace on Homestead in Player Piano, the
majority of people living in Rosewater County were put out of
work by automation, and a sense of uselessness ensued. As an
architect, Vonnegut’s father did not lose his job to automation, but
CALL ME JONAH 49
his eleven years without a commission during the Great

Depression ushered in a lack of purpose. This lack of dignity
stemming from feelings of economic uselessness is extant again
and again in Vonnegut’s fiction. Eliot’s solution: “I’m going to love
these discarded Americans, even though they’re useless and
unattractive. That is going to be my work of art” (36). He moves
the headquarters of the Rosewater Foundation to Rosewater, and
goes about the business of loving its people.
Edith Vonnegut’s reaction to her family’s financial misfortune is
probably best portrayed in the behavior of the Rosewater cousin,
Fred, a middle-class insurance salesman surrounded by Rhode
Island old money. Fred longs for excitement in his life, and his
marriage suffers from his wife’s unhappiness in the middle class.
Caroline Rosewater is embarrassed for what little money Fred
takes home, especially in comparison to her neighbors’ New
England wealth, and she would be happy only in a life like that of
her friend, Amanita Buntline—one where she might, for instance,
spend $17 on a toilet paper cover without a thought. Fred wanders
about his days trying to scare the working class into life insurance
policies to establish a “fortune” for their families should they die.
His depression is so bad that he is thinking of ways to kill himself
the afternoon we meet him. “Sons of suicides often think of killing
themselves at the end of the day,” we are told, “when their blood
sugar is low” (138). Fred and others in the novel are in fact always
at the brink of suicide, regardless of their particular caste, but
always regarding money—reminiscent of Vonnegut’s own mother’s
mental collapse and eventual suicide, stemming ultimately from
her family’s inability to remain in the upper class.
That suicide seems always imminent, always a possibility, is
paralleled in Eliot Rosewater’s view that earth’s oxygenated
atmosphere “was eager to combine violently with almost every-
thing [earth’s] inhabitants held dear” (22). This grim view that
things are forever on the brink of destruction has been noticed by
critic Clark Mayo: “the world of Vonnegut’s fiction is ... constantly
under the threat of annihilation” (Mayo 26). Eliot’s mania for fire
and fire prevention is due to his accidental slaying of several
firefighters when he mistook them for S.S. men during his service
50 KURT VONNEGUT
in the war, who were trying to extinguish a clarinet factory. On

this account he is, like Howard W. Campbell Jr. and many of
Vonnegut’s future characters, a guilt-ridden protagonist trying to
reconcile himself with his past. Giannone points out that Eliot’s
guilt is his prime motive for taking the Rosewater Foundation to
task. Eliot:
lays his life down before the troubles of others. The guilt lingers.
To try to make amends, he becomes the spiritual volunteer fireman
in Rosewater, ready to answer every human emergency that comes
through his black phone (which is near the red phone he answers
as Fire Lieutenant). Eliot takes on the crimes of his personal and
familial past along with the disasters that are the world’s estate.
(Giannone 74)
In time, Mushari approaches Fred Rosewater (literally right

before he hangs himself ), and Eliot’s sanity will be on trial. On
one of Eliot’s catatonic utterances, his nervous father, the Senator,
brings Kilgore Trout, the washed-up science fiction writer of
dozens of cheap, garish, outlandish books to help with the case.
Trout is recognizable throughout Vonnegut’s novels as his
surrogate, his alter-ego, in that he is what Vonnegut feared he
himself could be, the writer of countless unread, superficial science
fiction novels with a statement that nobody gets, being made to
take bad jobs to support his writing. (Here he works at a stamp
redemption center. In Slaughterhouse-Five, he supervises unreliable
boys selling magazine subscriptions.) He is Vonnegut’s mouthpiece
declaring that Eliot is in fact not insane, that his work with the
Rosewater Foundation “was quite possibly the most import social
experiment of our time, for it dealt on a very small scale with a
problem whose queasy horrors will eventually be made world-wide
by the sophistication of machines. The problem is this: How to
love people who have no use?” (God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater 183).
Eliot’s Barry Goldwateresque, Joe McCarthyesque, moral-
legislating father, Senator Rosewater, fails to see that Trout is in
fact giving perfectly sensible reasons for Eliot’s sanity, and instead
thinks it only a good defense in court. But this is precisely the
CALL ME JONAH 51
socioeconomic dilemma that Vonnegut is exposing in the novel,

and Trout demonstrates the matter succinctly. Vonnegut’s socialist
views inform much of the novel’s message. Asked by his father if
he is a communist, Eliot replies,
[N]obody can work with the poor and not fall over Karl Marx
from time to time—or just fall over the Bible, as far as that goes. I
think it’s terrible the way people don’t share things in this country.
I think it’s a heartless government that will let one baby be born
owning a big piece of the country, the way I was born, and let
another baby be born without owning anything. The least a
government could do, it seems to me, is to divide things up fairly
among the babies. Life is hard enough, without people having to
worry themselves sick about money, too. There’s plenty for
everybody in this country, if we’ll only just share more. (87–88)
Though seeming rather progressive from our current, post-Reagan

perspective, Vonnegut was certainly not alone espousing this
viewpoint in the mid-sixties. The “War on Poverty” and Great
Society of the Kennedy-Johnson administrations were still well
underway. Rather than suggesting that such a mentality be
engendered in America, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is Vonnegut
lauding the current political climate, and debunking the
Goldwater right who sought the acquiescence of government
involvement in socioeconomics in the 1964 presidential election.
(Senator Rosewater, incidentally, is yet another of Vonnegut’s
“historical” figures, as Rumfoord of The Sirens of Titan is a
caricature of Franklin Roosevelt, or Dan Gregory is Norman
Rockwell in Bluebeard.)
The resolution has Eliot adopting the dozens of children
women have accused him of fathering in Rosewater County, thus
making Fred Rosewater’s relation too distant to make a claim on
the Rosewater fortune, regardless of Eliot’s mental status. It is
Eliot’s ultimate act of unconditional love towards others. The
distribution of Eliot’s fortune makes things fair, but it is not
necessarily monetary altruism that Vonnegut advocates; emotional
altruism is what is prescribed for humanity. Trout suggests
52 KURT VONNEGUT
volunteer fire departments are an appropriate model (note that

Vonnegut has long been active in fire departments, and that this
was written decades before the September 11 attacks):
“[T]hey are, when the alarm goes off, almost the only examples of
enthusiastic unselfishness to be seen in this land. They rush to the
rescue of any human being, and count not the cost. The most
contemptible man in town, should his contemptible house catch
fire, will see his enemies put the fire out. And, as he pokes through
the ashes for the remains of his contemptible possessions, he will
be comforted and pitied by no less than the Fire Chief.”
Trout spread his hands. “There we have people treasuring
people as people. It’s extremely rare. So from this we must learn.”
(God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater 184)
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater was finally granted critical review
after its publication, though it seems to lack much of the style and
jazz that Vonnegut seemed to be working toward in his first four
novels. But Peter Reed cautions against discounting the novel in
its apparently traditional form:
Compared with [Cat’s Cradle and Slaughterhouse-Five], Rosewater

appears to be a reconventionalized novel, shorn of the
experimentation with language, fragmentation, narration-within-
narration, and self-reflexive fictionality that are their hallmarks. Yet
while it returns to the novel’s traditional preoccupations with
money and social morality, it does so in a manner appropriate to
its own era, and it is not without elements of the innovation that
so characterizes the other two books. (Merrill 109).
Reed goes on to cite the novel’s latent and manifest intertextuality

with Hamlet, its frequent throwbacks to family histories as reasons
for many of the predicaments in the book, Trout’s and Eliot’s use
of fictions to rationalize Eliot’s sanity, among other things, as
perfect examples of metafiction working in Rosewater. The novel
was nonetheless a departure from the experimental breakthrough
that was Cat’s Cradle, and despite its heavy print runs and sales, it
CALL ME JONAH 53
received mediocre reviews. Martin Levin’s critique in the New York

Times called Vonnegut’s visions “less flamboyant” and his narrative
“less inventive” than Cat’s Cradle, saying that Rosewater is more a
series of random meditations than a work of fiction. (April 25,
1965)
Rosewater was Vonnegut’s only novel in print by 1965. Mostly
to support his family, Vonnegut accepted a teaching position at
the University of Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop that same year.
Though his decision to take the post in Iowa was underwritten by
purely pragmatic, financial reasons, it would prove to be a major
turning point in his career, and not coincidentally. Until then,
Vonnegut had been living a sequestered literary life in Cape Cod,
and so feedback and association with what other writers were
doing at the time was rare for him. At Iowa, he finally talked with
other writers, scholars, and creatively inclined students, who
advocated, or at least supported, a view of the way books ought to
be written that was not wholly representational. The spirit in
which Vonnegut penned Cat’s Cradle was not only acceptable, he
found, but moreover a valid means of expression. When Eliot
reaches the pinnacle of his insanity, he envisions Indianapolis
enveloped in a great firestorm. The hallucination is inspired by a
book he read about the destruction of Dresden; its appearance and
description in God Bless You Mr. Rosewater marks Vonnegut’s
readiness to approach his own Dresden experience in his writing.
For years he had been trying to say what he needed to say about
Dresden, and after Iowa, he found a voice.
CHAPTER FOU R
So It Goes
Time warps, spaceships, and galactic

materializations aside, Vonnegut, an earthling like
all of us, can not push his vision past the ironic
barrier of the mind. He bestows on his ideal
creatures, the Tralfamadorians, the supreme
privilege of blowing up the universe. They blow it
up, of all things, experimenting with a new fuel for
flying saucers. So much, then, for Universal Time
and Space, where vision and extinction finally
become one.
—Ihab Hassan, Liberations
SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE
That seventeen years went by from the time Vonnegut published
his first novel to the appearance of Slaughterhouse-Five is evidence
enough that Vonnegut had work to do before he could address his
experiences in Dresden. The Writers Workshop at Iowa was
pivotal, to be sure, in allowing Vonnegut to find a voice in which
he may tell the story. In 1967, he was awarded a Guggenheim
Fellowship which allowed him time to travel to Dresden to
research the novel. The windfall of his three-book-deal with
54
SO IT GOES 55
Seymour Lawrence, recorded charmingly in Slaughterhouse-Five

itself (18), gave Vonnegut the time and money necessary to begin
devoting himself to his Dresden book whole-heartedly. The
dreamy circumstances surrounding Vonnegut’s collaboration with
Sam Lawrence are detailed by Vonnegut friend and fellow author
Dan Wakefield in the Vonnegut Statement. Wakefield claims to
have it from Sam himself that he contacted Vonnegut after reading
his notorious review of the new Random House dictionary in the
New York Times, October 30, 1966. Actually, this short, funny
piece on Random House’s latest effort would not just attract the
attention of a publisher willing to sign an author to three books
and pay a sum of Vonnegut’s choosing in advance of royalties. It
has been postulated that one reason Vonnegut managed to go
from the cloistered audience of college science fiction readers to
the front page of the New York Times Book Review was precisely his
work for that publication, “New Dictionary” included. Vonnegut
dropped by Lawrence’s Boston office one day, “[a]nd it all began,
the very nice relationship of Vonnegut as author and Sam as his
publisher” (Klinkowitz, The Vonnegut Statement 65).
Vonnegut was a battalion scout in the 106th infantry, which
arrived on the European front in November of 1944. The Battle of
the Bulge, the last tremendous German effort on the Western
front, caught the Allies in the Ardennes of Belgium in mid-
December, and Vonnegut became a prisoner of war. He and others
were sent first to a camp south of Dresden and later moved into
Dresden proper, and put to work in a factory that made vitamin
supplements for pregnant women. Dresden was not an open city,
contrary to some publications over the years, but it is true that
Axis military presence in the area was small, that the city had not
been a target yet in the war, and that with the war winding down,
no one expected to be bombed. It was nevertheless decimated by
Allied aircraft on the night of February 13–14, 1945, where a
firestorm was created by dropping incendiaries followed by
saturation bombing. Some reports have it that the surface
temperature in Dresden reached over 2000ºF. Civilian deaths have
been estimated between 35,000 and 135,000. Vonnegut became
one of very few people to survive the event, taking shelter along
56 KURT VONNEGUT
with a few dozen other American POW’s and their German guards
in an underground meat locker called Slaughterhouse-Five, in the
warehouse district where they were imprisoned.
The author recalls that he considered writing what he had seen
soon after it was over. Little had been mentioned about the
firebombing in American newspapers, however, and it wasn’t
until he met and spoke with Europeans that he realized his
Dresden experience was something truly unique after all. He and
other soldiers were amazed that the Allies were engaged in the
destruction of civilian cities, but as a 22-year-old private in 1945,
Vonnegut had no way of judging the extent of the catastrophe or
questioning the Allies’ reasons for doing it. Reliable figures of
casualties had not been available after the war. It was only when
he began to research the raid, writing to the Air Force, for one,
that he found much of the information about the firebombing
was classified. He began to question the motivations and con-
sequences of warfare under the resistance he discovered in trying
to obtain accurate information about Dresden. The reality of the
event and government attempts to suppress this reality were eye-
opening for the survivor; the duplicity of the American
government was made plain in its gloss of what happened at
Dresden:
Our generation did believe what its Government said—because

we weren’t lied to very much. One reason we weren’t lied to was
that there wasn’t a war going on in our childhood, and so
essentially we were told the truth. There was no reason for our
Government to lie very elaborately to us. But a government at war
does become a lying government for many reasons. One reason is
to confuse the enemy. When we went into the war, we felt our
Government was a respecter of life, careful about not injuring
civilians and that sort of thing. Well, Dresden had no tactical
value; it was a city of civilians. Yet the Allies bombed it until it
burned and melted. And then they lied about it. All that was
startling to us. (Conversations 95)
As Allen puts it, the implications “came gradually, as a long

SO IT GOES 57
process of thinking about the nature of war and writing about it,
at first unsuccessfully” (Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 80). Finally,
he arrived at the real story worth telling: not the raid itself, but all
it implies, “to one man, to each individual man, to all men
collectively” (Reed 173).
The trick is to somehow portray the events as they affected him
and simultaneously show their significance to everyone else. At the
same time, there must be some narrative distance allowing
comment on what is portrayed. Crucially, Vonnegut is in the
book. The first chapter details how he came to write the novel,
and relates his difficulty in finding the words to express what
happened at Dresden and what Dresden means; his presence
authenticates his story in a way impossible otherwise. This
augments a metafictional tendency marked first with his intrusion
by way of introduction in the 1966 hardcover edition of Mother
Night, although that innovation is worlds away from the
altogether first-person frame of Slaughterhouse.
We find out that at least part of his difficulty is due to his poor
memory of what happened, so he calls an old friend, Bernard V.
O’Hare, who survived the bombing along with Vonnegut. As he
tells the story in Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut can’t help but
notice a certain animosity in Bernard’s wife, Mary:
Then she turned to me, let me see how angry she was, and that the
anger was for me. She had been talking to herself, so what she said
was a fragment of a much larger conversation. “You were just
babies then!” she said.
“What?” I said.
“You were just babies in the war, like the ones upstairs!”
I nodded that this was true. We had been foolish virgins in the
war, right at the end of childhood.
“But you’re not going to write it that way, are you.” This wasn’t
a question. It was an accusation.
“I—I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, I know,” she said. “You’ll pretend you were men instead
of babies, and you’ll be played in the movies by Frank Sinatra and
John Wayne or some of those other glamorous, war-loving, dirty
58 KURT VONNEGUT
old men. And war will look just wonderful, so we’ll have a lot more
of them. And they’ll be fought by babies like the babies upstairs.”
(Slaughterhouse-Five 14)
Her real-life reaction to his project was “a very important clue”

in helping Vonnegut discover what he wanted to say. “She freed
me to write about what infants we really were: 17, 18, 19, 20, 21.”
(Hayman et al., 69). It is a first step in dictating the implications
of war, instead of depicting the events of World War II alone.
Vonnegut dedicates the book to Mary O’Hare (and to a taxi driver
he and O’Hare befriended on their second trip to Germany). He
addresses her concerns in the novel, in a passage that shows how
her insight led to the straight-forward, unglamorous truth telling
of Slaughterhouse:
So I held up my right hand and I made her a promise: “Mary,” I

said, “I don’t think this book of mine is ever going to be finished. I
must have written five thousand pages by now, and thrown them
all away. If I ever do finish it, though, I give you my word of
honor: there won’t be a part for Frank Sinatra or John Wayne.
“I tell you what,” I said, “I’ll call it ‘The Children’s Crusade.’”
She was my friend after that. (Slaughterhouse-Five 15)
“The Children’s Crusade” becomes one of the book’s subtitles, a

title which not only alludes to the unheroic age of the soldiers
who fought the war, but to the original Children’s Crusade of
1213, the story of which Vonnegut sets down in the first chapter,
too. The inhumanity of raising an army of well-meaning and
desperate children and subsequently shipping them not to
Palestine but as slaves to North Africa is thus drawn as a parallel to
Vonnegut’s story of young men sent to fight, and the civilians—
children among them—killed in the process.
Vonnegut achieves his distance by making the war and its
aftermath happen to a fictional character, Billy Pilgrim. Vonnegut
is there, we know; but he tells the story through Pilgrim as a way
to make claims by example—a technique that would be
impossible in a first person, autobiographical account. Because
SO IT GOES 59
Dresden happens to Pilgrim, who is apathetic, even unfazed by his

wartime experiences, it provides Vonnegut with the tools to show
one of the gravest malefactions of warfare: forgetting that it
happened.
Vonnegut also calls the story a “Duty-dance with Death,” and
death and dying subsume the novel, marked everywhere with the
Vonnegutian refrain, “so it goes.” The tired weight of this
repetition whenever anyone or anything dies in the book serves to
remind the reader of death’s everpresence, with each instance of
the phrase heaving mortality in its utterance. The dance is the
helter-skelter chronology of the book, which is due to Billy
Pilgrim’s having become “unstuck in time,” having no control over
the moment in life he is now attending. Pilgrim’s story is told
piecemeal as he jumps to times in his life before, during, and after
the war, dancing with death all the while.
Pilgrim’s war story is much like Vonnegut’s. He gets lost in the
confusion of the Battle of the Bulge almost immediately on his
arrival, and wanders for days behind German lines with two
scouts and an anti-tank gunner named Roland Weary. As a
poorly-clothed, unarmed chaplain’s assistant, Pilgrim is a liability
to the others in the group—in dress shoes with a broken heel he
has a hard time keeping up—and the professionalism of the two
scouts puts him under the care of the despicable Weary, whose
macabre sensibilities are evident in the considerable romance he
ascribes to the business of war. Billy’s handicaps lead the two
scouts to desert Weary and himself, and Weary (who had
imagined their little group as “The Three Musketeers”) nearly
beats the frozen, starving Pilgrim to death on this account. His
assault is only halted by their capture by German soldiers. The
Germans take away Weary’s valuable combat boots; he develops
gangrene on his feet and dies in a severely overcrowded train car
days later, blaming Pilgrim out loud. The wiry Paul Lazzaro
pledges to avenge Weary’s death.
The trains finally arrive at a prison camp, where the
Americans find themselves guests of well-appointed British
officers who have been there since the war began. Due to a
clerical error, they have been receiving ten times their allotted
60 KURT VONNEGUT
aid packages from the Red Cross, and have arranged a feast and a
“musical version of Cinderella” (96) for the emaciated
Americans. The feast makes everybody sick, including “the
author of this book” who tells Billy he just excreted his brains
(125). Shipped to Dresden shortly after, Billy (like Vonnegut) is
put to work in a vitamin factory. He survives the firestorm with a
hundred other American prisoners, their German guards, and the
American Nazi propagandist Howard W. Campbell Jr. in a meat
locker underneath a slaughterhouse. They are made to mine for
corpses in the ruins.
After the war Billy suffers from a nervous breakdown while
finishing his degree at the Ilium School of Optometry. While he is
hospitalized he meets Eliot Rosewater, a huge fan of the novels of
Kilgore Trout, who becomes Billy’s favorite novelist, too. He
marries the school founder’s daughter, and makes a fortune selling
frames to factory workers in town. He produces two children, and
in 1967 is abducted by a flying saucer that takes him as a
specimen for a zoo on the planet Tralfamadore. He is mated there
with a porn star named Montana Wildhack and produces another
child, but since he went through a time-warp to get there it does
not take any years away form his earthly life.
The Tralfamadorians are the ultimate outsiders. Not only do
they have the benefit of viewing earth from far away, but their
ability to see in the fourth dimension lets them see all events in
time at once. They know how the universe will end, just as they
can see how a person will die, and it is their approach to the
uncontrollable universe that Billy adopts as a way to cope with the
tragedies and uncertainties of existence. A Tralfamadorian guide
tells Pilgrim that the universe blows up when they experiment
with new fuels for flying saucers:
“If you know this, said Billy, “isn’t there some way you can prevent
it? Can’t you keep the pilot from pressing the button?”
“He has always pressed it, and he always will. We always let him
and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.”
(Slaughterhouse-Five 117)
SO IT GOES 61
The Tralfamadorians cope with this and all other terrible

inevitabilities by not looking at them. It is a non-solution, of course,
much like Billy’s own complacency in the post-war period. “That’s
one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough:
Ignore the awful times, and concentrate on the good ones” (117).
In 1968 Pilgrim becomes the sole survivor of a plane crash. His
wife, insane with concern, gets in a car accident on the way to the
hospital that takes the exhaust from her Cadillac; she dies of
carbon monoxide poisoning moments after she arrives at the
hospital where Billy is infirmed. When Billy gets home he
embraces the task of telling the world what he learned about time
and life on Tralfamadore. He writes letters to newspapers and tries
to get on talk shows. He foresees his own death in 1976, where he
is to be assassinated speaking to a capacity crowd on the nature of
time and flying saucers in a domed baseball stadium by a man
hired by Paul Lazarro, who makes good on his word.
Vonnegut warns on the title page that the novel is told
“somewhat in the schizophrenic telegraphic manner of the tales of
the planet Tralfamadore,” which accounts for the lack of
chronology in the short scenes we see. Billy gets to see one of these
Tralfamadorian novels in his travels. One of the aliens explains:
[E]ach clump of symbols is a brief, urgent message—describing a

situation, a scene. We Tralfamadorians read them all at once, not
one after the other. There isn’t any particular relationship
between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them
carefully so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of
life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. There is no
beginning, no middle, no end, no causes, no effects. What we
love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments
seen all at one time. (88)
Vonnegut tells his publisher in the first chapter that his novel
“is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is
nothing intelligent to say about a massacre” (19). Because
Vonnegut cannot find any good reason—any cause for Dresden,
he finds himself narrating the circumstances of the event like a
62 KURT VONNEGUT
Tralfamadorian. The extraordinary effect of this in the novel is to

make all events, no matter when they occurred, to lead up to
Dresden. Traditional cause and effect undergo utter evisceration.
Reed shows how the structure of Slaughterhouse-Five works to
achieve this through the Tralfamadorian model:
Aside from the fact that the Tralfamadorians, in their novels as in

their minds, emphasize beautiful moments and exclude the
unpleasant ones, Slaughterhouse-Five almost fits their
requirements. Most of the situations described are grim, many
downright painful. The “clumps of symbols” obviously cannot
be read simultaneously, either, but the way in which short scenes
from several points in time are spliced together does help sustain
the impression of concurrent actions, and intensifies the sense of
an interrelationship of events transcending time. Nor is there
always a “particular relationship between all the messages,” but
they often do show a kinship of theme or image, and they
cohere to create “an image of life” which, while not always
“beautiful,” is frequently “surprising” and in total effect quite
“deep.” Because all of its scenes cannot be read simultaneously,
the book comes closer to possessing a climax than does the
Tralfamadorian novel. It is hard to single out one climactic
event, be it the raid itself or the ironic execution of Edgar Derby,
but the novel certainly builds towards the end where the
meaning, the questions and the emotional impact come together.
(Reed 179–180)
Besides making Dresden the inevitable consequence and influ-

ence of every event in the novel, the Tralfamadorian vision, which
strips events of their identifiable reasons, presents a view of life
unable to be anything but fatalist. One Tralfamadorian tells Billy
that “All time is time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to
warnings or explanations. It simply is” (Slaughterhouse-Five 86).
The absence of will falls in place with the message Malachi
Constant brings back to Earth at the behest of Rumfoord in The
Sirens of Titan: “I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we
all” (The Sirens of Titan 229).
SO IT GOES 63
Vonnegut’s nonlinear construction of time, however, does more

than throw causality to the wind: it is in fact a way of replicating
the human experience. Time travel is possible—through memory.
Even if we cannot, like the Tralfamadorians, look at all different
moments just the way Tralfamadorians can “look at a stretch of the
Rocky Mountains” (Slaughterhouse-Five 27), we may still maintain
a will to live by remembering only the “nice moments”—even in
an uncertain and often painful cosmos. It is the Tralfamadorian
way of life—to “forget” everything displeasing and “remember”
only the “nice” moments.
That is, of course, precisely not what Vonnegut would have us do.
“If what Billy Pilgrim learned from the Tralfamadorians is true, that
we will all live forever, no matter how dead we may sometimes seem
to be,” Vonnegut writes in the tenth chapter, “I am not overjoyed.
Still—if I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that,
I’m grateful that so many of those moments are nice” (211). The
author has looked back, remembering the countless deaths with the
“so it goes” refrain. He claims in the first chapter that the book is a
failure, because, like Lot’s wife, he looked back at destruction (22).
His closing point is that there is an awful lot of suffering in the
world, and while he (and the reader) may have so many “nice
moments” to remember, hundreds of thousands of others in the
world do not. On the plane to Dresden with O’Hare, his old war
buddy supplies him with population statistics that demonstrate this:
On an average, 324,000 new babies are born into the world each day.
During that same day, 10,000 persons, on an average, will have
starved to death or died from malnutrition. So it goes. In addition
123,000 persons will die for other reasons. So it goes. This leaves a net
gain of about 191,000 people each day in the world. The Population
Reference Bureau predicts that the world’s total population will double
to 7,000,000,000 before the year 2000.
“I suppose they will all want dignity,” I said.
“I suppose,” said O’Hare. (212)
His timing was impeccable. Slaughterhouse-Five’s 1969 public-

ation was embraced by his already energized college readers, who
64 KURT VONNEGUT
saw increasing American involvement in Vietnam just as

nonsensical as Vonnegut presented his Dresden experience. His
last chapter brings what has already been portrayed as a universally
significant event right up to the present:
Robert Kennedy, whose summer home is eight miles from the

home I live in all year round, was shot two nights ago. He died last
night. So it goes.
Martin Luther King was shot a month ago. He died, too. So it
goes.
And everyday my Government gives me a count of corpses
created by military science in Vietnam. So it goes. (210)
Of course, some readers were turned off by the superficial

absurdity of the novel. Space aliens and time-travel and such are
easy elements to seize upon in a charge of insipidity. Christopher
Lehmann-Haupt’s Times review praised the novel, but added that
“it is also very Vonnegut, which means you’ll either love it, or
push it back in the science fiction corner,” (March 31, 1969).
David Standish of Playboy asked Vonnegut why, if the novel is
about the firebombing of Dresden, would the novel be written in
“science fiction mode.” The answer to Playboy is a definitive
comment on the fantastic in all his work:
These things are intuitive. There’s never any strategy meeting

about what you’re going to do; you just come to work everyday.
And the science-fiction passages in Slaughterhouse-Five are just
like the clowns in Shakespeare. When Shakespeare figured the
audience had had enough of the heavy stuff, he’d let up a little,
bring on a clown or a foolish innkeeper or something like that,
before he’d become serious again. And trips to other planets,
science fiction of an obviously kidding sort, is equivalent to
bringing on the clowns every so often to lighten things up.
(Conversations 94)
Especially since Cat’s Cradle, it has been clear that Vonnegut

will embrace experimental forms of storytelling to make his point.
SO IT GOES 65
The convoluted chronology of Slaughterhouse-Five is symptomatic

of Vonnegut’s view that old plots—especially “Western
civilization’s most enthusiastically received story,” Cinderella
(Palm Sunday 315), or, thanks to Vonnegut’s graduate work in
anthropology, the Judeo-Christian Bible’s story of fall and
redemption—have failed humanity. The novel calls attention to its
Christian leitmotif no earlier than its epigraph:
The cattle are lowing,

The Baby awakes.
But the little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes.
Pilgrim is set up as a Christ figure in deed and description. Crucial

to understanding Vonnegut’s replacement of the story of Christ is
the Kilgore Trout novel, The Gospel From Outer Space, in which an
alien undertakes a study of Christianity, “to learn, if he could, why
Christians found it so easy to be cruel.” He concludes that,
because of “slipshod storytelling in the New Testament,” the
message of mercy in the gospels has been misinterpreted to read:
“Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn’t well
connected.” The alien infers that since people thought, “Oh boy—
they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time!” it followed that,
“[t]here are right people to lynch”—namely, the less connected
(Slaughterhouse-Five 108–109). The alien’s revision has Jesus as a
bum and a nobody, who is adopted as the Son of the Creator of
the Universe after his crucifixion with the pronouncement that
“From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who
torments a bum who has no connections! ” Billy is the bum, of
course, since he is Cinderella (145), and since Vonnegut tells us
that the epigraph was chosen because both Billy and the Baby
Jesus cry soundlessly.
Billy becomes aware of his own impending death but resolves
to use it to teach people how to view death in the world. His mess-
age promises immortality:
The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that

66 KURT VONNEGUT
when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much

alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral.
(26–27)
Billy’s words before his execution in Chicago are highly allusive to

Christ’s teachings. He tells his disciple-like audience that he will be
killed very soon, and:
There are protests from the crowd.

Billy Pilgrim rebukes them. “If you protest, if you think that
death is a terrible thing, then you will not have understood a word
I’ve said.”
And when police try to protect him from his fate:
“No, no,” says Billy serenely. “It is time for you to go home to your
wives and children, and it is time for me to be dead for a little
while—and then live again.” At that moment, Billy’s high forehead
is in the cross hairs of a high-powered laser gun. It is aimed at him
from the darkened press box. In the next moment, Billy Pilgrim is
dead. So it goes.
So Billy experiences death for a while. It is simply violet light
and a hum. There isn’t anybody else there. Not even Billy Pilgrim
is there:
Then he swings back into life again, all the way back to an
hour after his life was threatened by Lazzaro—in 1945.
(142–143)
So while Christ teaches an everlasting life in Heaven or Hell,

“Billy, the new Christ, preaches that human beings do have eternal
life—even if there is no life after death” (Understanding Kurt
Vonnegut 88). “The identification can be taken seriously if not
solemnly,” writes Reed, noting that Pilgrim’s role as Christ is just
one of the ways he is presented as an Everyman, a “universal man-
child.” “At times it becomes ludicrous—but that is exactly the
point. Billy’s being moonishly bemused, utterly helpless, even
SO IT GOES 67
ridiculous, fits him for the role of persecuted child, of babe born
to die” (185).
Vonnegut has created religions in his books in the past, and he
would continue to do so in future novels, but none provoked such
ire as Slaughterhouse-Five. The book was banned from several
school districts’ libraries and reading lists, and even burned in a
few communities. “Acting on a teen-aged girl’s complaint that
Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse-Five” was “profane,” the school
board of a town in North Dakota ordered all copies of the book
burned, after a search of students’ lockers to ascertain that they
had harbored none of the dangerous contraband,” the New York
Times reported on November 17, 1973. “The board members
were undoubtedly encouraged in their act of censorship by
ministers who called the Vonnegut novel a “tool of the devil.” This
is indicative of most of the charges against the novel, that it was
either “antireligious” (one judge in Detroit ruled that its presence
on a suggested reading list violated the constitutional separation of
church and state) or profane, though Vonnegut finds the latter
charge to be a ruse to keep his opinions away from public eyes:
My books are being thrown out of school libraries all over the
country—because they’re supposedly obscene. I’ve seen letters to
small town newspapers that put Slaughterhouse-Five in the same
class with Deep Throat and Hustler magazine. How could anybody
masturbate to Slaughterhouse-Five?.... It’s my religion the censors
hate. They find me disrespectful to their idea of God Almighty.
They think it’s the proper business of government to protect the
reputation of God. (Hayman et al. 88–89)
Slaughterhouse-Five would mark the beginning of Vonnegut’s trib-

ulations with censorship, and to the obscenity charge he would
ever contend that the few four-letter words were frequently used
were parts of the American vernacular. Much later in his career he
would create Eugene Debs Hartke in Hocus Pocus, who tells his
whole story with the conscious intention of avoiding profanity.
The character explains his use of phrases like “when the excrement
hit the air-conditioning” with his grandfather’s precept: “profanity
68 KURT VONNEGUT
and obscenity entitle people who don’t want unpleasant

information to close their eyes and ears to you” (Hocus Pocus 4).
Clearly cataclysm has featured in Vonnegut’s novels before, and
many critics see his first five novels, in theme and word, getting
ever closer to what he wants to say in Slaughterhouse-Five. (This,
incidentally, is another way in which Vonnegut may be “looking
back” like Lot’s wife—he is drawing on characters, themes, and
places from his previous fiction to build his point.) It is a
storybook way of evaluating the author’s career, one that Vonnegut
would admonish as a theme in his later works, but to which he
nevertheless concedes in interviews. Whatever he had to say on
this planet, he felt he expressed in Slaughterhouse-Five; so
successful was the book and its reaction that he felt he didn’t have
to work at all anymore after its publication if he didn’t want to.
But Vonnegut does resist the notion that his time in Dresden
was altogether life-changing and a huge preoccupation for him in
his writing. Surely he wanted to tell the story; but he told Playboy
in 1973 that “[t]he importance of Dresden in my life has been
considerably exaggerated because my book about it became a best
seller” (Conversations 94). His point is a good one. Just because
Slaughterhouse-Five made him famous, just because it is a
masterpiece, and just because it sold well commercially does not
warrant undue psychoanalysis of the author, or a discounting of
the themes or inspirations of his other novels.
CHAPTER FIVE
Burying Dresden
If the story of an American father’s departure from

his hearth is allowed to tell itself, if it is allowed to
wag tongues when he isn’t around, it will tell the
same story it would have told a hundred years ago,
of booze and wicked women.
Such a story is told in my case, I’m sure.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday
“I’M LEFT-HANDED NOW, and I’m through with novels,” Vonnegut

told his brother Bernard. “I’m writing a play. It’s plays from now
on” (Happy Birthday, Wanda June vii).
Even though the threat wouldn’t hold up, that statement from
the preface to Vonnegut’s 1970 play Happy Birthday, Wanda June is
indicative of the unbalancing he felt after completing
Slaughterhouse-Five. During 1970, he traveled to Biafra just before
the Nigerian civil war, and was also appointed to teach creative
writing at Harvard University. Besides writing what he had felt for
so long he needed to exorcise, Vonnegut found his family life
changing too. His children, by this time, had reached adulthood.
“My big house was becoming a museum of vanished childhoods—
of my vanished young manhood as well (Happy Birthday, Wanda
June vii). His twenty-five-year marriage to his high school
69
70 KURT VONNEGUT
sweetheart Jane Cox Vonnegut became unworkable and they

separated in 1971. He recalls its failure in Palm Sunday:
It was a good marriage for a long time—and then it wasn’t. The

shock of having our children no longer need us happened
somewhere in there. We were both going to have to find other
sorts of seemingly important work to do and other compelling
reasons for working and worrying so. But I am beginning to
explain, which is a violation of a rule I lay down whenever I teach a
class in writing: “All you can do is tell what happened. You will get
thrown out of this course if you are arrogant enough to imagine
that you can tell me what happened. You do not know. You cannot
know.” (Palm Sunday 189)
But he would explain, saying that “it was mainly religion in a

broad sense that Jane and I fought about.” For Vonnegut, who had
long taken pride in his rational atheism and his family’s history as
such, he found his wife’s comfort in religion “painful.” “She came
to devote herself more and more to making alliances with the
supernatural in her need to increase her strength and
understanding—and happiness and health.... She could not
understand and cannot understand why that should be painful to
me, or why it should be any business of mine at all” (Palm Sunday
192).
He left Cape Cod and moved into a friend’s apartment in New
York City, where he would dedicate himself to the writing and
production of a play he had written fifteen years earlier. “I was
writing myself a new family and a new early manhood. I was going
to fool myself, and spooks in a novel couldn’t do the job,” he
remarked in the preface to Happy Birthday, Wanda June (vii). The
loneliness of his Manhattan move was surely difficult for
Vonnegut, who puts so much weight on the importance of a
supportive family.
Wanda June ran on and off Broadway for better than six
months, and was made into a film in 1971. Finding its inspiration
in Homer’s Odyssey, it satirizes the sort of Hemingway masculinity
that finds honor in warfare and hunting game for sport.
BURYING DRESDEN 71
Vonnegut was plagued with depression in the early seventies,

and nearly suicidal. Reflecting on this time in his life he wrote:
As for real death—it has always been a temptation to me, since my

mother solved so many problems with it. The child of a suicide
will naturally think of death, the big one, as a logical solution to
any problem, even one in simple algebra. Question: If Farmer A
can plant 300 potatoes an hour, and Farmer B can plant potatoes
fifty percent faster, and Farmer C can plant potatoes one third as
fast as Farmer B, and 10,000 potatoes are to be planted to an acre,
how many nine-hour days will it take Farmers A, B, and C,
working simultaneously, to plant 25 acres? Answer: I think I’ll
blow my brains out. (Palm Sunday 304)
His avoidance of the form of the novel continued in 1972, when

people at National Education Television’s WGBH in Boston
approached him about a ninety-minute television show that would
combine characters and stories from his novels to date. Between
Time and Timbuktu follows Stony Stevenson (a character from
The Sirens of Titan) through a chrono-synclastic infundibulum,
where he enters various moments of Cat’s Cradle, Player Piano,
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, even the short story “Harrison
Bergeron” and the play Happy Birthday, Wanda June. It aired on
March 13, 1972. Later, Vonnegut would disassociate himself with
the project in a letter to Vonnegut scholar Marc Leeds:
It is what it is, and doesn’t belong in the canon of my work

anywhere since the idea of doing such a thing did not in the least
originate with me (Vonnegut’s emphasis.) I was so lacking in
passion about what people were doing with my ideas within the
demands of their own art form that I didn’t even protect the title of
a short story of mine, “Between Timid and Timbuktu,” In small
dictionaries, the word between Timid and Timbuktu is Time.
(Reed and Leeds, xxiii)
During this time Vonnegut was also gaining recognition from

academic circles. In 1971 he was awarded an M.A. by the University
72 KURT VONNEGUT
of Chicago for Cat’s Cradle, and he was elected Vice President of

P.E.N. American Center. He also became a member of the
National Institute of Arts and Letters to which he would be
elected Vice President in 1975. And finally he was awarded an
honorary Litt.D by Hobart and William Smith College in 1974.
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
After the movie production of Happy Birthday, Wanda June and
the television production of Between Time and Timbuktu,
Vonnegut wrote, “I am not going to have anything more to do
with film—for this reason: I don’t like film” (Between Time and
Timbuktu xiv). Citing the outrageous cost of changing something
on film (“I get the heebie-jeebies every time I hear how much it
will cost to fix a scene that won’t work quite right”), Vonnegut
prefaced Between Time and Timbuktu with a reversal of his
previous declaration in Happy Birthday, Wanda June:
I have become an enthusiast for the printed word again. I have to

be that, I now understand, because I want to be a character in all of
my works. I can do that in print. In a movie, somehow, the author
always vanishes. Everything of mine which has been filmed so far
has been one character short, and that character is me. (Between
Time and Timbuktu xv)
But his return to print would be a complex undertaking. Breakfast

of Champions was due out in 1971 or 1972, but Vonnegut had to
call it back while he worked out its form through a writer’s block,
“a block most likely caused by the prospect of having to write
fiction for the first time as a wildly popular figure whose words
were awaited as if religious truth,” (Klinkowitz, Vonnegut in Fact
116). The novel was originally conceived as part of Slaughterhouse-
Five, but the two stories “just separated completely. It was like
pousse-café, like oil and water—they simply were not mixable. So
I was able to decant Slaughterhouse-Five, and what was left was
Breakfast of Champions” (Conversations 108). Vonnegut put
Breakfast on hold, shelving it several times in this period. Carol
Kramer wrote for the Chicago Tribune in 1970: “He’s offended by
BURYING DRESDEN 73
the amount of money he now makes. ‘It’s silly, not gratifying.’ So

he threw away his latest novel, Breakfast of Champions, because he
didn’t think it was very good and he knew it would make more
money. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do next’
(November 15, 1970). He finally did publish it for 1973.
The depression that Vonnegut suffered after completing
Slaughterhouse-Five—facing the challenges of late middle-life and a
failed marriage—had waned on Breakfast’s completion. Vonnegut
described Breakfast of Champions alternately as “a fiftieth birthday
present to myself ” (Breakfast of Champions 4) and as “a promise
that I’m beyond [suicide] now” (Conversations 109). “I feel as
though I am crossing the spine of a roof—” he wrote in the novel’s
preface, “having ascended one slope” (Breakfast 4).
Breakfast of Champions would be as cathartic for Vonnegut as
Slaughterhouse-Five was, reflecting a conscious effort on
Vonnegut’s part to move on. “I think I am trying to clear my head
of all the junk in there—the assholes, the flags, the underpants”
(5), he writes. So, too, did he pledge to use many of his recurring
characters for the last time. He told Playboy:
At the end of Breakfast, I give the characters I’ve used over and
over again their freedom. I tell them I won’t be needing them
anymore. They can pursue their own destinies. I guess that means
I’m free to pursue my destiny, too. I don’t have to take care of them
anymore. (Conversations 109).
Following “two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a

planet which was dying fast,” (Breakfast 7), the novel is a vicious
commentary on almost everything Vonnegut perceived wrong
with America in the early seventies: war (as is usually the case),
notably, discrimination, and above all, commercialism and
environmentalism. And the whole story is told through a patina of
the possibility of insanity. William Rodney Allen, noting that
Vonnegut was being medicated for depression by the writing of
Breakfast of Champions, and that his son, Mark, had been hospit-
alized for a schizophrenic breakdown in 1972, comments that
under these circumstances, “it is hardly surprising that [Breakfast
74 KURT VONNEGUT
of Champions] would offer the hypothesis that human beings are at

the mercy of the chemical compositions of their brains” (Vonnegut
in Fact 102).
Of the two “skinny, fairly old white men” the novel follows, our
“hero,” Dwayne Hoover, has his actions explained by way of body
chemistry. Dwayne is losing his grip on reality already when the
novel starts. He is a rich, and by all accounts a congenial Pontiac
dealer whose wife had committed suicide by drinking Drano. He
is a model of American economic success, a hero in the culture
Vonnegut portrays, but despite the tendency for other characters
in the story to measure Dwayne’s life as a successful one, he
remains altogether unhappy. He has sworn off love, forbidding his
girlfriend, Francine Pefko, from even saying the word. Dwayne
slips sufficiently to believe what he reads in a Kilgore Trout novel,
where only one man in the universe has free will, and everyone else
is a robot. He is violent by the novel’s end, and following the
lawsuits incurred during his outbursts, he is left in utter poverty.
The other line of the story follows Kilgore Trout, Vonnegut’s
resident washed-up science fiction writer. Trout’s odyssey to the
heartland of America, Midland City, begins with an invitation
from another Vonnegut mainstay, Eliot Rosewater. Millionaire
Rosewater has convinced the Chairman of an arts festival that
Trout is perhaps the greatest living American novelist, and he is
invited to speak at their new Center for the Arts. It is a surprise to
Trout, who, though he had written over one hundred novels,
wasn’t aware that anyone had read them. Trout initially forsakes
the invite as an invasion of privacy (and with a hint of
agoraphobia), though he eventually decides to “leave the cage” to
school the planners and patrons of the arts festival in the truth
about a career in the arts. “I’m going out there to show them what
nobody has ever seen at an arts festival before: a representative of
all the thousands of artists who devoted their lives to a search for
truth and beauty—and didn’t find doodley-squat!” (Breakfast of
Champions 37) .
Trout’s journey to Midland City provides much of the
disdainful commentary on the state of the culture and the planet
in Breakfast of Champions. He is mugged in New York City, and,
BURYING DRESDEN 75
with only $10 to get him to Middle America, hitchhikes with a

boring trucker through the “poisoned marshes of New Jersey”
ruined by factories making “wash day products, cat food, [and]
pop,” (84) to Philadelphia, “a bomb crater, as anyone could see”
(103). Trout, whom we are told is a difficult read as to whether he
is being serious or not, tells the trucker that all this pollution used
to worry him, too, until he realized that all this was the will of
God. “I realized ... that God wasn’t any conservationist, so for
anyone else to be one was sacrilegious and a waste of time. You
ever see one of his volcanoes or tornadoes or tidal waves?” (85).
Whether Trout is being genuine about this futility is superceded
by Vonnegut’s larger purpose to use Trout as an independent
commentator on this America. His role is made clear early in the
novel. Vonnegut calls attention to himself throughout as auctor,
again embracing metafictional techniques that acknowledge the
artificial nature of the novel. He even declares himself “on par with
the Creator of the Universe” (200). In Vonnegut’s game, Trout
answers the question, “What is the purpose of life?”:
To be
the eyes
and ears
and conscience
of the Creator of the Universe,
you fool. (57)
So as “the eyes and ears and conscience” of Vonnegut, Trout shows

us much of what is wrong with America in 1972.
Things don’t end well for Trout, either. Where Dwayne Hoover
winds up a bum on the street, having lost everything, Trout is
physically marred in Hoover’s rampage. If it wasn’t enough that
Dwayne Hoover bites off the end of one of Trout’s fingers,
Vonnegut takes over at the end, hurling Trout around the world,
to the sun and back, before releasing him from service. He begs for
youth from his creator as Vonnegut disappears into the void.
Through both characters we obtain visions of Vonnegut’s
purpose, to call attention to the fact that our culture is “really a
76 KURT VONNEGUT
bunch of commercials, and this is intolerable” (Conversations 108).

He explains that Breakfast of Champions is “a sidewalk strewn with
junk, trash which I throw over my shoulders as I travel back in
time to November eleventh, nineteen hundred and twenty-two”
(Breakfast of Champions 6). That date, without coincidence
Vonnegut’s birthday, is also what used to be called Armistice Day,
when for a magical moment at the end of the First World War, all
nations who participated were silent for the 11th minute of the
11th hour of the 11th month, November, 1918. As Vonnegut
works his way through the novel back to his own birthday, his
purpose is “to make my head as empty as it was when I was born
onto this damaged planet fifty years ago” (5). Fittingly, the last
page of the novel itself is silent, consisting only of a self-portrait of
Vonnegut with a tear forming from one eye.
This last page is one of dozens of drawings by Vonnegut in
Breakfast, which are an extension of Vonnegut’s use of hyperbole
to make his point in his novels—the drawings along with textual
descriptions assume the reader knows nothing about what is being
depicted. Everything is explained in this novel. Thus in describing
the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise, we are told what a chicken
is, and then treated to a drawing of a chicken, followed by a
detailed examination of the process behind preparing it for
consumption:
The idea was to kill it and pull out all its feathers, and cut off its
head and feet and scoop out its internal organs—and then chop it
into pieces and fry the pieces, and put the pieces in a waxed paper
bucket with a lid on it, so it looked like this:
[The paragraph is followed by a crude, childish drawing of a
bucket of chicken that takes up half the page.] (158)
Richard Giannone holds that since the novel is told as if the

author were a survivor telling us about a lost society—like Jonah
in Cat’s Cradle—the stuff of American culture is assumed to be so
foreign that it needs to be drawn. “By drawing the fruits and wares
of our daily life as if they were the dinosaurs, he brings us to
confront the fatal consequences of our ignominy: we are faced
BURYING DRESDEN 77
with, as an accomplished fact, the oblivion we are making”

(Giannone 109–110). Speaking of our civilization as if it were
already extinct gives Vonnegut the satiric distance he needs to
critique the state of a society the same year he is writing it.
Along with the recognition he received after Slaughterhouse-
Five, Vonnegut caught the attention of groups who saw his writing
for little more than the vulgarities it contained. Breakfast of
Champions was in part a reaction to this criticism, with its
insistence on detailing the length and girth of the members of
each male character, drawings of vaginas, and most famously, of
his own sphincter. Most of the banning and even burning came to
a head with Slaughterhouse-Five for its perceived anti-Christianity,
but Breakfast of Champions was surely included among the obscene
by many communities. In Palm Sunday, Vonnegut quotes an
article in Indianapolis Magazine that called Breakfast “a riot of
indecorous line drawings and misbegotten words that were
suggestive of a small boy sticking out his tongue at the teacher.”
Vonnegut explains that the words simply reflect the way
Americans really do talk, and that the drawings, among other
elements, are simply jokes about our bodies. Yet he admits that
such rampant use of patent vulgarity has an iconoclastic purpose
as well:
But even when I was in grammar school, I suspected that warnings

about words that nice people never used were in fact lessons in
how to keep our mouths shut not just about our bodies, but about
many, many things—perhaps too many things. (Palm Sunday
220–221)
A frequent target of the censorship movement of the seventies,

Vonnegut tried not to take the matter to heart, but admitted it
hurt him personally. “All that is going to offend me—any writer, I
think—” he said to the New York Times about the Supreme Court’s
June 1973 ruling on obscenity, “is to have the community say the
writer is not a good citizen, is a poison to society instead, and this
is painful to a person in any line of work, to be made to think that
he is a polluter, particularly of children” (August 21, 1973).
78 KURT VONNEGUT
Breakfast of Champions sold extremely well, as anyone might

have predicted. His longtime following no doubt counted Breakfast
of Champions among Vonnegut’s best, though many critics were less
than kind. Peter Prescott’s Newsweek review points out some of
Vonnegut’s more blatant inconsistencies, such as its constant
nagging that human beings are robots and machines, and then
staging Rabo Karebekian’s expression of awareness as “an
unwavering band of light” as some kind of satisfactory resolution
(Merrill 40). Prescott discards Vonnegut’s hyperbole as
oversimplification, and reduces his style to “smug pessimism with
its coy implication that the reader is one of the author’s initiates,
one of the happy few” (39). These criticisms, that his young
audience fails to admit that he can do wrong, that his “lobotomized
English” is the result of a lack of skill more than a conscious
attempt to change the way we perceive literature and the novel,
would begin to eclipse the acclaim he saw after Slaughterhouse-Five.
The publication of Slapstick, was fodder to this kind of criticism.
SLAPSTICK
The 1976 publication of Slapstick surprised many because of the
speed with which it was produced. There were four years between
Rosewater and Slaughterhouse-Five, and another four between the
latter and Breakfast. But if Slapstick elated readers on its arrival,
many were surely disappointed on its reading. Roger Sale’s New
York Times review seemed to hold Vonnegut responsible for his
“slightly laid back, rather dropped out, minimally intelligent
young” audience, hypothesizing that the “mistake” of Vonnegut’s
popularity is owing to the promise he had after writing Cat’s
Cradle and Rosewater, but that his novels since have become
formulaic rehash. Of Slapstick’s refrain, “hi ho,” Sale writes that
“it is a gesture of contempt for all writers who are willing to be
responsible for their creations; for all readers who long to read
real books; for anyone whose idea of America is more
complicated than Vonnegut’s country of interchangeable parts
full of poor people with uninteresting lives.” He rails at Vonnegut
for his “pithy pointlessness,” saying Vonnegut “sticks with
nothing long enough to imagine it, give it breathing space and
BURYING DRESDEN 79
air,” and he accuses him of using this style as a scapegoat to avoid

posing hard questions. Sale’s cherry on top:
I would be very much surprised if Tony Tanner or Robert Scholes

or others who once expressed fondness for Vonnegut admire him
as much now as they used to. Books that are self-confessed verbal
constructions simply need more earnest and witty inventing than
Vonnegut has shown himself capable of. (October 3, 1976)
Sale’s truculent review prompted a letter from Scholes, among

others, who defended Vonnegut, if not so much Slapstick:
“Slapstick” itself seems to me a piece of whimsy, a very slight novel,

and if Sale had said it isn’t as good as Vonnegut’s best work, I’d say
“yes” to that, too. It’s less ambitious, less important, less of a book
than his best work. What is wrong and unfair in Sale’s review is
that he uses this novel to try and prove that its seven predecessors
were some kind of trick, which is now exposed by the slightness of
“Slapstick.” (November 21, 1976)
Vonnegut was devastated. He addressed the review in his Paris

Review interview the following year.
Slapstick may be a very bad book. I am perfectly willing to believe

that. Everybody else writes lousy books, so why shouldn’t I? What
was unusual about the reviews was that they wanted people to
admit now that I had never been any good. The reviewer for the
Sunday Times [Sale] actually asked critics who had praised me in the
past to now admit in public how wrong they’d been. My publisher,
Sam Lawrence, tried to comfort me by saying that authors were
invariably attacked when they became fabulously well to do.... I
never felt worse in my life. I felt as though I were sleeping standing
up on a boxcar in Germany again. (Hayman et al. 85)
John Updike read Slapstick more forgivingly in the New Yorker,

reminding readers that the level of invention within the novel—
the book is easily the most science fiction work Vonnegut has
80 KURT VONNEGUT
penned since The Sirens of Titan—“looks easy only in retrospect”

(Merrill 47). Slapstick is whimsical, Updike allows, but that
should not distract us from Vonnegut’s capacity to depict pain in
his novels; in this regard Slapstick is among his best works.
Slapstick’s lengthy autobiographic preface tells us squarely of the
book’s inspiration in the life and untimely death of Vonnegut’s
only sister, Alice, who died at the age of 41 of lung cancer.
Comedy, obviously, has ever been intrinsic to Vonnegut’s work,
though he has remarked that he was always at his funniest in con-
junction with his sister, and it is for her that he writes the novel. He
goes further in the introduction, saying that “I had never told her
so, but she was the person I had always written for” (Slapstick 15).
Dreamed up on an airplane to his Uncle Alex’s funeral, with an
empty seat between him and his only other sibling, his brother
Bernard, Slapstick “depicts myself and my beautiful sister as
monsters” (19), the twins Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain and his sister
Eliza. They are ugly, hairy, polydactyl Neanderthaloids, who
become geniuses when together. A former President of the United
States, Wilbur was “the final President, the tallest president, and
the only one ever to be divorced while occupying the White
House” (22), who, with his sister, wrote a manual on child-
rearing, which ranked as the third most popular book of all time,
just under the Bible and The Joy of Cooking.
That Wilbur and Eliza approach genius when they think
together is just one of the idiosyncrasies of the world Vonnegut
creates in Slapstick. The Chinese, for one, have figured out the
same trick, and “teaching telepathically compatible specialists to
think as single minds,” they created super-intellects so great they
eventually saw the overthrow of Western civilization. ( The
Chinese got the idea, incidentally, from the success of the
Manhattan Project, where American and European minds came
together to create the atomic bomb—yet another Vonnegutian
way to hold irresponsible science accountable for cataclysm) (96).
The Chinese had figured out how to miniaturize themselves,
eventually to the size of microorganisms, causing a disease called
the “Green Death” which wiped out most of Manhattan. Gravity
became variable, like the weather, so that there may be light days
BURYING DRESDEN 81
and heavy days. The destruction caused by fluctuations in the

earth’s gravity combined with the great epidemics that swept the
nation were enough to Balkanize the country, so that by the time
Wilbur is in office, such figure heads as the King of Michigan have
risen, and the Presidency is wholly superfluous. It’s a different
world in other ways, too, but the most notable is the use of
government-issued, computer-generated middle names to advent
loneliness in society. It is the idea with which Wilbur campaigned
and won his Presidency; his slogan is the subtitle for the novel,
Lonesome No More!
Vonnegut had seen the benefits of a huge family on his visit to
Biafra, but its ultimate genesis is in his Indianapolis upbringing in
a large, tight-knit family, and his ability to see how much tighter
and larger it had been a few generations earlier.
Biafra made its mark on Vonnegut, who at the time experienced
loneliness and familial scorn on his separation from his wife, Jane.
He relates in Biafra: A People Betrayed,
General Ojukwu gave us a clue, I think, as to why the Biafrans

were able to endure so much so long without bitterness: They all
had the emotional and spiritual strength that an enormous family
can give. We asked the general to tell us about his family, and he
answered that it was three thousand members strong. He knew
every member of it by face, name, and reputation.
A more typical Biafran family might consist of a few hundred
souls. And there were no orphanages, no old people’s homes, no
public charities—and, early in the war, there weren’t even schemes
for taking care of refugees. The families took care of their own—
perfectly naturally. (Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons 149–150)
If his Biafra trip planted a seed for Vonnegut to write a novel

professing the utility of extended families, by his 1973 Playboy
interview it was clear that he was thinking extensively of its
application in America, and he comments on the subject:
Until recent times, you know, human beings usually had a

permanent community of relatives. They had dozens of homes to
82 KURT VONNEGUT
go to. So when a married couple had a fight, one or the other

could go to a house three doors down and stay with a close relative
until he was feeling tender again. Or if a kid got so fed up with his
parents that he couldn’t stand it, he could march over to his uncle’s
for a while. And this is no longer possible.... When Nixon is
pondering what’s happening to America—“Where have all the old
values gone?” and all that—the answer is perfectly simple. We’re
lonesome. We don’t have enough friends or relatives anymore.
(Conversations 79–80)
Vonnegut blames the dissolution of the big family on

industrialization and human greed. “People have to move from
here to there as jobs move, as prosperity leaves one area and
appears somewhere else.... You can’t go home again” (Conversations
79). Vonnegut felt so strongly about the anthropological need to
belong to a folk society and the vulnerabilities human beings face
without it that he proposed the idea to the 1972 McGovern
campaign:
I wanted [McGovern’s running-mate] Sarge Shriver to say, “You’re

not happy, are you? Nobody in this country is happy but the rich
people. Something is wrong. I’ll tell you what’s wrong: We’re lone-
some! We’re being kept apart from our neighbors. Why? Because
rich people can go on taking our money away if we don’t hang
together. They can go on taking our power away. They want us
lonesome; they want us huddled in our houses with just our wives
and kids, watching television, because they can manipulate us
then. They can make us buy anything, they can make us vote any
way they want. How did Americans beat the Great Depression? We
banded together. In those days, members of unions called each
other ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ and they meant it. We’re going to bring
that spirit back. Brother and sister!.... Here’s a war cry for the
American people: ‘Lonesome No More!’ ” That’s the kind of
demagoguery I approve of. (Conversations 102–103)
The government issuance of middle names to create huge

artificial folk-societies as a treatment for loneliness may be an idea
BURYING DRESDEN 83
close to Vonnegut’s heart, but it is only the latest of agents in

Vonnegut’s fiction that attempt to ameliorate the human
condition and fail. Giannone groups Swain’s plan with EPICAC
XIV of Player Piano, which did not “computerize the nation into
uniform contentment;” with Rumfoord’s Church of God the
Utterly Indifferent, which failed to comfort in its fatalist
resignation; with Bokononism and the pseudo-paradise of San
Lorenzo, which never raised living conditions for the wretched
San Lorenzeans; and with Rosewater’s philanthropy, which helped
neither his insanity nor the lives of most recipients of his
benefaction (Giannone 117).
This is yet further evidence of the author’s pessimism, which is
entirely expected from the spirit of novel outlined in the
introduction. As Vonnegut’s sister spent what were obviously her
last days in a cancer ward and prepared to leave her four young
children in the care of her husband, she learned from another
patient that “The Brokers’ Special,” her husband’s commuter
train, had become “the only train in American railroading history
to hurl itself off an open drawbridge” (12). His name was listed
among the dead in that day’s New York Daily News.
Since Alice had never received any religious instruction, and since
she had lead a blameless life, she never thought of her awful luck as
being anything but accidents in a very busy place.
Good for her.
* * *
Exhaustion, yes, and deep money worries, too, made her say
towards the end that she guessed that she wasn’t really very good at
life.
Then again: Neither were Laurel and Hardy. (13)
“Slapstick” would be one of Alice’s last words, and for Vonnegut,

his sister’s practically serene acceptance of her “awful luck” fell in
the tradition of the Depression-era comedians he revered so much
for providing encouragement and relief in difficult times. But in
84 KURT VONNEGUT
the case of Laurel and Hardy especially, the situations the two
found themselves in were often so trying, and their perseverance so
genuine, that they become models on how to handle the painful,
lonely world Vonnegut portrays.
Vonnegut met his second wife, noted photographer and author

Jill Krementz during the production of Happy Birthday, Wanda
June in 1970, not long after he had left his family home on Cape
Cod for a bachelor’s apartment in New York City. He dedicates his
1974 Wampeters, Foma, and Granfalloons to her, saying that she
helped him “regain my equilibrium” (xix). They were married
November 24, 1979, the same year his next novel, Jailbird, arrived
in bookstores.
JAILBIRD
If Vonnegut’s writing peaked with Slaughterhouse-Five and
began to wither with his seventies novels Breakfast and Slapstick,
he would begin to gain ground again with Jailbird, which was, re-
markably for an author with seven other novels in his curriculum
vitae, something completely different. It is an abandon of his
former settings, which usually showed some America of the distant
future; Jailbird is stripped of his hallmark weird science in favor of
a social realism wrought of actualized history. And while we have
seen “historical” characters in Vonnegut before—Rumfoord based
on Roosevelt, for instance—and though they certainly exist in
Jailbird, the novel mixes seamlessly the real persons of Richard M.
Nixon and Roy M. Cohn with historically inspired characters like
Mary Kathleen O’Looney (based on eccentric millionaire Howard
Hughes) and purely contrived characters, like our narrator and
protagonist, Walter Stankiewicz.
One reason for the genre shift, as William Rodney Allen has it,
may be Vonnegut’s realization “after the disastrous reception of
Slapstick that he had exhausted the possibilities of fantasy writing,
he turned once again to the description of ordinary human
experience” (Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 125). It is true that he
saw success with Mother Night, the only other work until Jailbird
devoid of sci-fi coloring, and that Mother Night was a turning
BURYING DRESDEN 85
point in his career. But another quality arose in Breakfast of

Champions after he had said what he needed to say in
Slaughterhouse-Five: the tendency to editorialize. Faced with
national recognition and a secure economic future for as far as he
could see, by the early seventies Vonnegut could write—and sell—
almost whatever he wanted. He told Playboy that “as I get older, I
get more didactic. I say what I really think. I don’t hide ideas like
Easter eggs for people to find. Now, if I have an idea, when
something becomes clear to me, I don’t embed it in a novel; I
simply write it in an essay as clearly as I can” (Conversations 108).
He admitted to Robert Short a few years later that “[t]here’ll be
more to complain about in my fiction. People will say it’s not
fiction anymore, it’s editorializing. And, you know, the stories are
getting sketchier and sketchier” (Short 300).
Thus the didacticism Vonnegut became drawn toward lent it-
self naturally to a more realist approach. The social criticism
Vonnegut was trying to engender, for once, did not require
galactic distance or hyperbolic description; the ills in Jailbird had
already been made plain in the realities of history and the news.
In Jailbird, Vonnegut aims his pen at the American right-wing.
His views on human dignity, the importance of communities, the
living conditions of the poor, and the seeming unfairness of those
born into great wealth by chance alone had always aligned him
with socialist views, and Vonnegut confesses in Jailbird’s prologue
that his first vote in a national election was for Norman Thomas
and Mary Hapgood on the Socialist ticket. (Thomas had taken
over Socialist Party leadership after the death of Eugene Debs in
1926, namesake of Eugene Debs Hartke, the protagonist in
Vonnegut’s penultimate novel.)
Liberal views are commonplace in Vonnegut’s fiction, and his
most stalwart proliferation of socialist ideals, in God Bless You, Mr.
Rosewater, was not so much a this-is-how-it-should-be diatribe but
a ribbing to the rising Goldwater right. In much the same way,
Jailbird does not attempt to advance a leftist policy; it assumes
already that the left is correct. What it does, according to Allen, is
to counter:
86 KURT VONNEGUT
the prevailing American Cold War doctrine that most of the evil in
the twentieth century (with the notable exception of the Nazis)
was caused by left-wingers or outright communists. Recalling the
repression of labor movements, the miscarriage of justice in the
infamous Sacco and Vanzetti trial, and the fanatical persecution of
anyone with left-wing ties in the McCarthy era, Vonnegut shows
through Starbuck’s account of his life that it is impossible for the
right wing in America to claim the moral high ground.
(Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 128)
Vonnegut’s prologue traces the inspiration for the novel to a time

just after the war when he was seeking to work for a union. He, his
father, and his Harvard-educated Uncle Alex were to meet one of
Alex’s Harvard acquaintances, Powers Hapgood, to discuss Kurt
Jr.’s interest in a career in service of a labor union. Hapgood had
formerly been on the front lines of the labor movement, being
jailed and even committed in his past for organizing strikes and
leading pickets. He recalled over lunch that day about testifying in
court:
[The judge], according to Powers Hapgood, asked him this final

question just before lunch: “Mr. Hapgood,” he said, “why would a
man from such a distinguished family and with such a fine
education choose to live as you do?”
“Why?” said Hapgood, according to Hapgood. “Because of the
Sermon on the Mount, sir.” ( Jailbird xix)
Hapgood is Kenneth Whistler in Jailbird, who inspires Starbuck at

a Harvard labor rally, and becomes his idol. Starbuck is a card-
carrying Communist even while he works for the Department of
Agriculture in the Roosevelt administration, but when he testifies
for the House Un-American Activities Committee that his friend
Leland Clewes had been a Communist, Starbuck finds himself out
of a job. Nixon would remember Starbuck’s services years later,
and makes him his Special Advisor on Youth Affairs. His basement
office becomes—through no fault of his own—a holding place for
Nixon slush funds, and he serves time in federal prison for not
BURYING DRESDEN 87
ratting on his “associates.” At the end of his sentence he

coincidentally runs into his old college lover and comrade in the
Party, who has married well. As Mrs. Jack Graham she has become
the president of the conglomerate RAMJAC, and it is her secret
task to redistribute the company’s wealth by creating countless
vice-presidents. Like so many contrived solutions to social ills we
have seen in Vonnegut’s fiction before, this one does not work,
either. O’Looney dies. The federal government seizes the
corporation and sells off all its assets to high-bidding foreigners,
using the money to pay down a tiny fraction of the national debt.
Hapgood’s lunchtime defense of socialism by virtue of the
Sermon on the Mount leads to a lampooning of American
Christianity in Jailbird. Christ’s Beatitudes support socialism
throughout the novel, and Vonnegut derails Emil Larkin, the
novel’s resident born-again Christian. Defending his Evangelism
to Starbuck, Larkin:
quoted the harrowing thing that Jesus, according to Saint

Matthew, had promised to say in the Person of God to sinners on
Judgment Day.
This is it: “Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire
prepared for the devil and his angels.”
These words appalled me then, and they appall me now. They
are surely the inspiration for the notorious cruelty of Christians.
“Jesus may have said that,” I told Larkin, “but it is so unlike
most of what else He said that I have to conclude that He was
slightly crazy that day.” (38)
More than Vonnegut the iconoclast here, this proselytism-as-

offense is part of a series of failures on the part of American
culture. The guilt-ridden, well-meaning Walter Starbuck finds
nothing in the culture that lynched Sacco and Vanzetti, that
allowed the RAMJAC conglomerate and the communist witch-
hunts of the late 40’s, that profligates hard-line Christianity to be
representative of the hope of the American Dream. Vonnegut uses
Christ’s simple messages in the Sermon on the Mount to
demonstrate the distance between this Christian nation and His
88 KURT VONNEGUT
teachings, which, when embraced, and offer an effective

consolation in an otherwise disconsolate life.
The curious mix of fact and fiction is not a rara avis of 1970’s
fiction, but Vonnegut, uniquely, binds them by including an index
to Jailbird. It treats such figures as Kissinger and O’Looney as
equally genuine. While clearly this mix of forms is an element of
Jailbird’s postmodernism—it makes patent the fictiveness, the
artificiality of the novel—Vonnegut has claimed that he had no
intention of writing the book in a postmodern style. He treats the
“postmodernist” label with the same ambivalence he gave to the
labels “science fiction” or “black humor.” The index, too, is
dismissed with whimsy:
I got the idea because I cited the Society of Indexers [in Cat’s
Cradle], whose headquarters is in England, and they wrote me and
asked if I would speak to them, saying I was the only person who
had ever made an indexer a character in a book…. So I asked Dell
if they would please hire an indexer and find out how much it
would cost to have this book indexed…. So they did, and then the
juxtapositions became quite marvelous, so you know they are a
very easy way to make a comic work of art. So all I did was say “Do
it,” and that’s what came out. (Reed and Leeds, 12)
Jailbird met fair reviews, especially in relation to those of

Slapstick and Breakfast of Champions. There were similar concerns
by some reviewers that Vonnegut continued to shun ac-
countability for his more challenging questions by hiding behind
the postmodernist notion of the fallibility of language. Michael
Wood’s New York Times review found fault in Vonnegut’s
insistence on pithy sayings like “So it goes,” and “And so on” once
introducing a heavy topic. Wood ends:
It is here that Vonnegut’s commitment to the small change of

language, to words used as jingles and charms, begins to look like
a disability. Language has limits. The rest is silence, and there is
more of the rest than we like to think. Vonnegut’s fiction
constantly alludes to this vast, silent domain. But language has
BURYING DRESDEN 89
other, larger, more attractive lives. It offers a world of

distinctions, it is a way of tackling experience as well as simply
weathering it. It may not often result in a clarification of life, in
Robert Frost’s phrase, but literature provides enough of such
clarifications to show us what can be done. Vonnegut’s work is so
likeable that its shallowness may seem to be part of its appeal. It is,
however, only shallowness, a sign that the limits of language have
been a little too warmly welcomed. (September 9, 1979)
But Vonnegut appeared to gain a second wind with Jailbird. Of its

creation, he told Charles Reilly in a 1980 interview that “I found
myself thinking that I had written two books over the last few
years that I hadn’t liked very much. The critics seemed similarly
displeased with them. I hadn’t liked much of what I had written in
this decade, in fact, and I began to wonder if I was ever going to
write another good book, because I had liked a lot of the older
ones. But I certainly like this one.” (Conversations 220–221).
Vonnegut followed Jailbird with the text to Sun Moon Star, a
children’s book in conjunction with illustrator Ivan Chermayeff
about the birth of Christ. Then, in 1981, he released Palm Sunday,
a follow-up of sorts to 1975’s Wampeters, Foma, & Granfalloons,
containing less available essays, interviews, and speeches in
addition to original autobiographical material. It has proved to be
an invaluable source for information on Vonnegut’s life, and,
stylized with his own commentary, offers uncanny insight to the
man and his opinions. He would follow that ten years later with
Fates Worse Than Death. At the age of sixty, thirty years after the
publication of Player Piano, he published his tenth novel, Deadeye
Dick, in 1982.
CHAPTER SIX
Ten Years More
But suppose we foolishly got rid of our nuclear

weapons, our Kool-Aid, and an enemy came over
here and crucified us….
If we were up on crosses, with nails through our
feet and hands, wouldn’t we wish that we still had
hydrogen bombs, so that life could be ended
everywhere? Absolutely.
We know of one person who was crucified in
olden times, who was supposedly as capable as we or
the Russians are of ending life everywhere. But He
chose to endure agony instead. All he said was,
“Forgive them, Father—they know not what they
do.”
—Kurt Vonnegut, Fates Worse Than Death
VONNEGUT SCHOLAR PETER J. REED interviewed the writer in the

autumn of 1982, following the release of his latest novel, Deadeye
Dick:
Reed: I’ve spoken about the artificiality of breaking up your work

into segments or periods, but I wanted to ask about the shape of
fiction overall.... It is common to see the works, the novels, as
90
TEN YEARS MORE 91
breaking up into six and four, or for people to talk about the works
up through Slaughterhouse-Five and what’s come since. Do you
have any fear of that yourself?
Vonnegut: No, that’s legitimate. All that annoys me about

arbitrariness is that history is divided up into decades, you know,
so I am a sixties person. Just what the hell was I doing in the
seventies and eighties?.... But in terms of my personal life, you’re
absolutely right: I had a sense of completion, of the mission
accomplished with Slaughterhouse-Five, and after that I had to start
a new business, a major new business, that was all. That was closed
out, and that was satisfying to me, and that was all I ever expected
to do with my life. (Reed and Leeds 3)
The three novels Vonnegut wrote in the eighties, Deadeye Dick

(1982), Galápagos (1985), and Bluebeard (1987), would comprise
his most productive period ever, and, while each is highly individ-
ualized, they represent a renaissance for the writer that began with
in 1979 with Jailbird. Deadeye Dick is dedicated to his second
wife, Jill Krementz, who no doubt did much to spur this new era
of creativity. They adopted a daughter, Lily, in 1982, the same year
of Deadeye Dick’s publication.
Despite what critics had to say about his last few novels, Von-
negut’s speaking engagements continued to be in high demand in
throughout the eighties. Jerome Klinkowitz’s unmatched
examination of Vonnegut as a public figure notes that “like F.
Scott Fitzgerald in the 1930’s, the conservative 1980’s were less
fond of Vonnegut’s sometimes revolutionary attitudes from an era
which had seemed to run its course.” Even so, his lecture, “How to
Get a Job Like Mine,” would have audiences at capacity,
“applauding whichever work-in-progress he would conclude with”
(Klinkowitz, Vonnegut in Fact 21).
DEADEYE DICK
Deadeye Dick would continue Vonnegut’s movement from
fantastic or alter-American settings, and, like Jailbird, presents a
socially real picture of a guilt-ridden narrator relating the solecisms
92 KURT VONNEGUT
of his past. And where Jailbird confined Vonnegut’s voice to the

introductory material, Deadeye Dick does likewise. Vonnegut tells
us openly, however, how to read the novel for autobiographical
clues:
I will explain the main symbols of this book.

There is an unappreciated, empty arts center in the shape of a
sphere. This is my head as my sixtieth birthday beckons me.
There is a neutron bomb explosion in a populated area.
This is the disappearance of so many people I cared about in
Indianapolis when I was starting out to be a writer. Indianapolis in
there, but the people are gone.
Haiti is New York City, where I live now.
The neutered pharmacist who tells the tale is my declining
sexuality. The crime he committed in childhood is all the bad
things I have done. (Deadeye Dick xii–xiii)
Certainly the crime the narrator, Rudy Waltz, committed has orig-
ins in Vonnegut’s own life. Rudy’s father, like Kurt Vonnegut, Sr.,
was a collector of firearms. The young Rudy accidentally shoots
and kills a pregnant woman with a gun from his father’s extensive
(and unguarded) collection. “You know, I did that,” Vonnegut
told interviewer Zoltan Abadi-Nagy in 1989, “I didn’t kill
anybody. But I fired a rifle, out over Indianapolis. I didn’t hit
anybody as far as I know.” He goes on to say that the experience
frightened him into his adult years. And just as Vonnegut explains
that he fired the gun because “it was just very easy to fire” (Reed
and Leeds, 21–22), so the young Rudy Waltz just squeezes the
trigger, loosing a bullet over Midland City (Deadeye Dick 62).
Some critics have assigned a deeper source for Rudy’s guilt.
Palm Sunday contains Vonnegut’s essay “Embarrassment,” in
which he describes “a bad dream I have dreamed for as long as I
can remember.... In that dream, I know that I have murdered an
old woman a long time ago. I have lead an exemplary life ever
since” (Palm Sunday 189). Vonnegut wonders in the essay whether
the woman may be his mother. William Rodney Allen psycho-
analyzes: “It seems reasonable to conclude that Vonnegut’s dream
TEN YEARS MORE 93
about killing an older person may reflect anger at both his parents
and that his sense of shame in part proceeds from that source”
(Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 140). Rudy’s parents do in fact
resemble Vonnegut’s own: Otto Waltz is a would-be artist, and his
fascination with firearms, it is suggested, has roots in offsetting a
not-so-masculine trade; Rudy’s mother, like Vonnegut’s, was born
rich, took a change in financial status poorly, and failed as a
mother. Deadeye Dick, then, when read autobiographically, may
be, as Allen has it, “Vonnegut’s most intensely personal fictional
exploration of his unhappy relationship with his parents” (139).
Deadeye Dick may also be Vonnegut’s self-inflicted penance for
the failure of Happy Birthday, Wanda June. Rudy’s one chance at
renewal, his play Katmandu, is as unready as Vonnegut’s was, and
though Wanda ran for some time on and off Broadway, Katmandu
follows in its failure to advance its philosophy. On the one hand,
Vonnegut’s novels are always filled with depressed, sometimes
failed artists, and a terrible play is an acceptable vehicle for that.
When asked about this recurring character Vonnegut cites the
University of Iowa study done when he taught at the Writer’s
Workshop in 1965, which found all the writers “strikingly
depressed” (Conversations 281). On the other hand, writing about
Katmandu may be cathartic for Vonnegut in the same way
Breakfast of Champions had been; he told Playboy that writing was
therapeutic, and felt that “Breakfast will be the last of the
therapeutic books” (Conversations 109). Setting his failed play
from ten years back into fiction, however, may have been a way to
treat that part of his past. In fact, Breakfast of Champions and
Deadeye Dick have other similarities as well. Besides sharing the
same setting, Midland City, with its Sugar Creek and its arts
center, many of the same characters return, and we even discover
why Dwayne Hoover’s wife committed suicide. Perhaps Deadeye
Dick is a penance of sorts for Breakfast of Champions, too.
The novel is ostensibly Vonnegut sounding off on gun control,
with Otto Waltz saying “most of the things the National Rifle
Association still says about how natural and beautiful it is for
Americans to have love affairs with guns,” just before his twelve-
year-old son Rudy nonsensically fires a shot over the city that hits
94 KURT VONNEGUT
the pregnant Eloise Metzger “right between the eyes” (Deadeye

Dick 66). The police chief accidentally blows August Gunther’s
head off with a ten-gauge shotgun, and the crime is covered up
with the help of Otto Waltz. George Metzger’s letter to the
newspaper a day and a half after his wife was shot is a plea putting
the culpability of his wife’s death on the gun (87). Moreover,
Vonnegut’s statement on the danger inherent in firearms is a
microcosm of the national irresponsibility about weapons
development. Vonnegut has the inhabitants of Midland City and
its surrounding areas exterminated by the accidental deployment
of a neutron bomb.
There is social commentary in the nature of the destruction
here, too, because though the bomb kills about one hundred
thousand people, it leaves all the property intact, granting “about
ten days or so” of news coverage (33). Rudy questions the nature
of the loss: “Since all the property is undamaged, has the world
lost anything it loved?” (34). It is a grand extension of the same
questions posed by Paul Proteus and Eliot Rosewater: is there love
in the world for people who are economically useless? Since it is
everywhere shown that money and materialism are precisely what
is useless and even perilous, Vonnegut’s one conclusion
throughout his novels is the value of human decency. Eliot
Rosewater says, “Godamnit, you’ve got to be kind.” Malachi
Constant says the purpose of life is “to love whoever is around to
be loved.” Vonnegut’s own son Mark, in his memoir about his
battle with manic depression (originally thought to be
schizophrenia), Eden Express, says “We are here to help each other
get through this thing, whatever it is.” Courtesy and decency in
the human community is the only defense against the absurd
catastrophes of the universe.
Another Vonnegutian theme that returns in Deadeye Dick is the
tendency for people to create fictions, stories for themselves.
When it becomes clear that Rudy fired the shot that killed Mrs.
Metzger, his father immediately and dramatically takes the blame
for the crime. Rudy’s older brother Felix says later that their father
confessed because “[i]t was the first truly consequential adventure
life had ever offered him” (69). Otto Waltz accepts the blame and
TEN YEARS MORE 95
jail sentence because it would make a good story. Rudy’s coping

mechanism for all his worst memories, such as his confrontation
with George Metzger, husband of slain Eloise, is to turn them into
plays. It is a way to circumvent reality. “The characters are actors.
Their speeches and movements are stylized, arch” (83–84).
Vonnegut resists stepping into the action of the story (and in all
his other later novels from Jailbird on, with the exception of his
farewell, Timequake), but he does allow himself a cameo. In one of
the novel’s metafictional highlights, Rudy finds himself smiling at
Celia’s funeral. When he becomes aware of this, he looks around
to see if anyone has noticed.
One person had. He was at the other end of our pew, and he did
not look away when I caught him gazing at me. He went right on
gazing, and it was I who faced forward again. I had not recognized
him. He was wearing large sunglasses with mirrored lenses. He
could have been anyone. (198)
The allusion is to Kurt Vonnegut of Breakfast of Champions, where

the author is described as wearing the same mirrored lenses.
Kilgore Trout, we know, sees mirrors as leaks—holes into another
universe. Here, then, Vonnegut places his avatar in the text as a
link to his other fictional universes.
By this time in reviews it is acknowledged that Vonnegut has a
fan base (most reviewers cannot resist throwing in the word
“young”) that will remain uncritical of his work so long as it
contains enough of his old mainstays. The New York Times printed
a mediocre review by Christopher Lehmann-Haupt that spent
most of its column space being thankful that the novel did not
contain a repeating tagline like “so it goes.” Conversely, Loree
Rackstraw, albeit a former student of Vonnegut’s at Iowa, wrote
that it “will likely stand as Vonnegut’s most tightly crafted and
complex work to date” (Merrill 54). Her review, in fact, says much
to support that statement. She has Vonnegut’s overarching concern
succinctly: “life is often a cruel accident; the dilemma of humanity
is how to stay alive with decency in the face of that reality” (54).
It wouldn’t be until 1991’s Fates Worse Than Death that Vonnegut
96 KURT VONNEGUT
would discuss publicly his 1984 suicide attempt, and even then,
thinly. “I went briefly apeshit in the 1980’s in an effort to get out
of life entirely, and wound up playing Eightball in a locked ward
for thirty days instead” (Fates Worse Than Death 93). “I was pissed
off,” he told the Washington Post, but declined to elaborate on one
specific cause. “If I do myself in sometime, and I might, it will be
because of my mother’s example. If I really get pissed off, screw it
all.” David Streitfeld, the author of the article, wrote that “[i]t’s
not a coincidence that his suicide attempt came in 1984, at a
moment when liberalism was on the run and, worse luck, hardly
anybody minded” (Streitfeld c.01). Whether or not it was Ronald
Reagan that drove Vonnegut to suicide, he was certainly no friend
to that administration. But by the early 90’s he seemed resigned to
continue living. “[Suicide is] on my mind all the time. But I tried
as hard as I could to kill myself, without any luck. So my feeling is,
the hell with it.” Given these comments, it is rather extraordinary
that he would write three more novels and the non-fiction Fates
between his attempted suicide and this interview.
GALÁPAGOS
Chance is yet again given a major role in Vonnegut’s next novel,
which spans a million years in duration. Unlike the social realities
of Jailbird and Deadeye Dick with their guilty, Howard Campbell-
like narrators reflecting inwardly on a dubious life, Galápagos
externalizes catastrophe in the tradition of Slapstick and The Sirens
of Titan, though in this surely fantastic tale, science trumps science
fiction. We again have the decimation of the human species, but
like everything else in Galápagos, it is done slowly, over time, by
means of a tiny virus affecting the human ovum, making
reproduction impossible for everyone save a group of ten people
collected on Santa Rosalia, a contrived island in the Galápagos.
The descendants of that bottlenecked gene pool, thanks to
circumstantial mutation and natural adaptation, become seal-like
fish-eaters living in bliss, having lost the big brains that Vonnegut
sees as the cause of so much mischief.
Vonnegut has always been interested in Darwin and nature, and
the book has its genesis in a trip Vonnegut and his wife made to
TEN YEARS MORE 97
the Galapagos islands in 1981. “Of course, I was fascinated by the

island’s natural life,” he told the New York Times. “We had ad-
vantages Darwin didn’t have. Our guides all had graduate degrees
in biology. We had motorboats to move us around the islands
more easily then rowboats could when Darwin visited the
Galápagos in the 1830’s. And, most important, we knew Darwin’s
theory of evolution, and Darwin didn’t when he was there”
(October 6, 1985).
Adherence to Darwin’s theory—and to the science of the story
in general—was of great concern to Vonnegut in writing
Galápagos. He rejects utterly the notion of the “survival of the
fittest,” unsurprisingly, and Vonnegut goes to great lengths in the
novel to show that chance plays more in determining the
circumstances of life than strength. The “Nature Cruise of the
Century” that carries ten humans alone away from the diseased
mainland had been originally intended for what many in
American culture would consider to be great examples of human
beings: celebrities. As luck would have it, though, the ten people
that do make it to Santa Rosalia have the genetic configurations to
allow humans to survive on the rocky islands of the Galápagos,
including a fur covered girl whose mother was subjected to
radiation after the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.
Vonnegut had read the writings of Harvard biologist Stephen J.
Gould in preparation for the book, and he was delighted to receive
a letter from Gould after Galápagos was published, affirming that
its science is plausible. “He thought it was a wonderful roman a
clef about evolutionary theory and also proves how random the
selection is. He said that the fur-covered baby was a good
mutation, that it was a common one. So it’s reputable
scientifically; I was as worried as much about that one as
anything” (Conversations 252)
Vonnegut was tortured by the novel’s demand for scientific
plausibility as much as the technical problems of telling a tale that
spans a million years. “As an atheist, I couldn’t have God watch”
(Conversations 251), he said of the viewpoint character. No doubt
pleasing to Vonnegut’s longtime readers, the narrator’s identity is
hinted at sufficiently that we may guess (before it is made clear)
98 KURT VONNEGUT
that the story is being told by the ghost of Leon Trotsky Trout, son
of Vonnegut’s wretched alter-ego Kilgore Trout, who speaks to us
from the year 1001986 A.D. as a ghost writing the story “with air
on air” (Galápagos 290). The author is double served: a million
years gives him the distance he needs to comment on society
(predominantly the Vietnam War in Galápagos, though the usual
suspects do show up), and it extends the theme of evolution, since
the narrator is the transformed offspring of a former Vonnegut
mouthpiece.
The genius of Galápagos lies most especially in the way it is
structured. The novel is split in two parts. “The Thing Was” is the
story of the circumstances under which these ten alone came to
the island of Santa Rosalia. “And the Thing Became” shows how
the spawn of less than a dozen humans evolved to forsake
intelligence for animal happiness, a condition lacking the range of
human emotion. The first, larger half of the book is deliberately
convoluted, with a confusing mix of personalities and
circumstances meant to reflect the dazzling complexity of the
human condition. Ever a dabbler in experimental fiction,
Vonnegut writes the second half with the express purpose of
mirroring the de-evolution that takes place over the novel’s million
years, and in that, “The Thing Became” is weaker and less
sophisticated than “The Thing Was.” Vonnegut has never owned
up to subscribing to European post-structuralist philosophies, but
William Rodney Allen shows how Galápagos embraces the precepts
of deconstruction. “Vonnegut uses the language of the novel to
undermine its own ground, suggesting that the complexities of
human, self consciousness have meaning only in relation to each
other, and little or no relation to events outside themselves.
Galápagos uses intelligence to undercut intelligence, language to
undercut language” (Understanding Kurt Vonnegut 158).
Even the Vonnegutian hallmarks have evolved in Galápagos.
First, readers will notice the absence of a Vonnegut mainstay since
Slaughterhouse-Five—the author’s introduction. His familiar
taglines, too, which never really recovered in the eyes of critics
since Roger Sale’s review of Slapstick, have practically vanished.
Of course, Vonnegut cannot resist innovation. Idiosyncrasies like
TEN YEARS MORE 99
asterisks next to the names of people who have died, and quotations
throughout the text from a computer called Mandarax (a clear
symbol of human knowledge with allusions to the apple that felled
Adam and Eve) which provides much of the humor in its
unexpected “commentaries.”
Galápagos resists the utter pessimism inherent in his other
works, and this is the most startling evolution. It is evident as early
as the epigraph, Anne Frank’s famous quote, “In spite of
everything, I still believe people are really good at heart.” Trout
confirms that the loss of intelligence, for all the troubles caused by
our big brains, is not a desirable event after watching what
humans have become after a million years.
Nothing ever happens around here that I haven’t seen or heard

many times before. Nobody, surely, is going to write Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony—or tell a lie, or start a Third World War.
Mother was right: Even in the darkest times, there really was
still hope for humankind. (Galápagos 259)
BLUEBEARD
After his list of 15 other works at the beginning of Bluebeard,
Vonnegut writes, “Enough! Enough!” He is 65 in 1987, and
though it has only been two years since the issue of Galápagos,
Vonnegut insists that he is tired, and that he cannot write as fast as
he used to.
Bluebeard resurrects Rabo Karebekian, the minimalist painter
introduced first in Breakfast of Champions, whose painting of an
unwavering band of light representing animal awareness provided
Vonnegut with the reason we are all not machines. Bluebeard is
presented as Karebekian’s autobiography, and it tells as much about
his life as it does “this past troubled summer” (Bluebeard 1). Rabo is
shown to be a broken, weak man, and his confrontations with
newcomer Circe Berman provide much of the dramatic tension in
the novel. Circe is a prying, rather strong willed woman who writes
books about adolescent problems. She concludes that Karebekian’s
discontent is largely due to his poor relations with women.
100 KURT VONNEGUT
Bluebeard, of course, gives Vonnegut the opportunity to opine

on any number of social issues, but it is the relationship between
art and war, and his fascination with the sexual revolution that
really drive the plot. The title refers to the folktale of Bluebeard,
which Vonnegut sets down, “for the sake of the young readers”:
Bluebeard is a fictitious character in a very old children’s tale,

possibly based loosely on a murderous nobleman of long ago. In
the story, he has married many times. He marries for the
umpteenth time, and brings his latest child bride back to his
castle. He tells her that she can go into any room but one, whose
door he shows her.
Bluebeard is either a poor psychologist or a great one, since all
the new wife can think about is what might be behind the door. So
she takes a look when she thinks he isn’t home, but he really is
home.
He catches her just at the point she is gazing aghast at the
bodies of all his former wives in there, all of whom he has
murdered, save for the first one, for looking behind the door. The
first one got murdered for something else. (46)
Karebekian has a secret room, too—the locked, windowless potato

barn is a source of intrigue for Berman. Inside is a vast painting of
photographic quality featuring a terrible scene after war, with over
five thousand figures portrayed in precise detail—the largest as big
as a cigarette, and the smallest requiring a magnifying glass.
Refugees wander across the countryside; former POW’s chase
down their former guards; soldiers from every imaginable army
swarm the valley. When Circe says that there don’t seem to be any
women, he tells her that half of the people who have just left the
concentration camps and the insane asylums are women, they just
don’t look the part; all the healthy women are hiding in root
cellars at the very edges of the huge canvas, “putting off being
raped as long as possible” (286). The painting is called, “Now It’s
the Women’s Turn.”
It is his most vocal position on the women’s movement yet. At
first, “Now It’s the Women’s Turn” appears to signify just another
TEN YEARS MORE 101
hazard of humanity’s propensity towards war. But the depiction of

the young women hiding in roots cellars is just one evocative
example of the mistreatment of women in Bluebeard, who so
often—as in the titular folktale—find their own doom a door
away. Karebekian recalls the murder of women in the Armenian
genocide the Turks conducted on his parent’s generation; his
employer Dan Gregory abuses his lover Marilee Kemp, who, also
beaten by her father in youth and raped by the football team in
high school, provides much of the feminist commentary in the
novel. When Rabo hints to her about his numerous sexual
encounters during the war, Marilee translates, “wherever you went
there were women who would do anything for food or protection
for themselves and the children and the old people, since the young
men were dead or gone away.” She goes on to contend that “the
whole point of war is to put women in that condition. It’s always
men against women, with the men only pretending to fight among
themselves” (224). Her story of her cook, Lucrezia, elaborates the
sacrifices women have made during the conflict, and assigns blame:
“Do you have an artificial leg?” she said.

“No,” I said.
“Lucrezia, the woman who let you in, lost a leg along with an
eye. I thought maybe you’d lost one, too.”
“No such luck,” I said.
“Well—” she said, “early one morning she crossed a meadow,
carrying two precious eggs to a neighbor who had given birth to a
baby the night before. She stepped on a mine. We don’t know what
army was responsible. We do know the sex. Only a male would
design and bury a device that ingenious. Before you leave, maybe
you can persuade Lucrezia to show you all the medals she won.”
And then she added: “Women are so useless and unimagin-
ative, aren’t they? All they ever think of planting in the dirt is the
seed of something beautiful or edible. The only missile they can
ever think of throwing at anybody is a ball or a bridal bouquet.”
(224–225)
Commentary like this provides the double meaning for

102 KURT VONNEGUT
Karebekian’s realist masterpiece hidden in the potato barn. Under

these circumstances, “Now It’s the Women’s Turn” not only
provides a vivid description of the horrors of war, but suggests
moreover that perhaps the time has come for the world to allow
women to be the global decision-makers. Vonnegut told
interviewers Allen and Smith in 1987 that in the wake of constant
weapons development and increasing armament, “now it’s the
women’s turn—it had better be” (Conversations 271).
Along with further invectives against war and a strong
advocacy of feminism, Bluebeard is about art. Vonnegut says in
Fates Worse Than Death that he got the idea for the book after
writing an article for Esquire about Jackson Pollock, who,
spearheading the Abstract Expressionist movement of the post-
World War II period, “made himself a champion and connoisseur
of the appealing accidents which more formal artists worked hard
to exclude from their performances” (Fates 42). Bluebeard posits
that Pollock and other Abstract Expressionists (Karebekian
among them) had to turn to accidents to inspire beauty in others
following the maelstrom of the war. Vonnegut speaks to this
connection between abstract art and the horrors of World War II
in the Esquire article, reprinted in Fates:
Has any theory of artistic inspiration ever urged painters so

vehemently, while they worked, to ignore life itself—to ignore life
utterly? in all the Abstract Expressionist paintings in museums and
on the walls of art lovers, and in the vaults of speculators, there is
very little to suggest a hand or a face, say, or a table or a bowl of
oranges, or a sun or a moon—or a glass of wine.
And could any moralist have called for a more appropriate
reaction by painters to World War II, to the death camps and
Hiroshima and all the rest of it, than pictures without persons or
artifacts, without even allusions to the blessings of Nature? A full
moon, after all, had come to be known as a “bomber’s moon.”
Even an orange could suggest a diseased planet, a disgraced
humanity, if someone remembered, as many did, that the
commandant of Auschwitz and his wife and children, under the
greasy smoke from the ovens, had had good food every day. (44)
TEN YEARS MORE 103
For all this praise of abstract painting, though, much of Bluebeard

deals with the advantages of representational and non-
representational art. Prying houseguest Berman favors the former,
and her challenge to Karebekian’s artistic career results in the
illustrative autobiography he pens. As the similarities between
Karebekian’s life and experimental style of art develop with
Vonnegut’s, Karebekian, in turn, defends Vonnegut’s career. Both,
of course, have embraced new forms of art following their
experiences with the atrocities of the Second World War.
Vonnegut is consistent in his usual preoccupations. Karebekian
is a guilty man like Starbuck and Campbell and Waltz, among
others. Suicides are ubiquitous. Karebekian refers often to the
times with his surrogate families, his band of artist-warriors in the
camouflage detail in the war, and the artists who founded the new
movement in New York City. He is lonely in his old age. The
horrors of warfare are examined here in perhaps the most detail
since Slaughterhouse-Five. There are even double-agents in the
characters of Marilee and her homosexual husband (who, not
accidentally, treats her better than any of her former, masculine
significants), and though the role does not serve as a glimpse of a
different reality like Proteus’ double-dealing in Player Piano, the
proposition does allow her to evaluate democracy versus fascism.
(This in fact may be a vehicle to illustrate the ways in which
women are something less than participants in American politics;
it is not until she has married to the rank of Contessa that it
becomes imperative for her to make a decision on the form of
government that is best.)
There are innovations of note. Like its predecessor Galápagos,
Bluebeard ends rather happily. The presence of a full and lively
household, like the tight-knit fisher-people that humans have
become in Galápagos, fulfills Vonnegut’s fantasy of the large,
supportive family. Vonnegut’s introduction is minuscule when
viewed against some of his former works, and serves mostly to
advance his own view that too much money has been spent on
“human playfulness,” which includes not only works of art, but
those other causes of celebrity—professional sports, music, etc.
Of this pithy author’s note Klinkowitz writes, “it is to be
104 KURT VONNEGUT
emphasized that with this work Vonnegut no longer stands in

front to suggest what his novel is but rather wishes to clarify what
it is not” (Vonnegut in Fact 128). His old hallmarks like childish
hyperbole, and meaningful, repetitive taglines are ghosted, too,
though they have not seen center stage since Slapstick.
CHAPTER S EVE N
Even Later Works
To the Editor:
A woman I had dinner with the other night said
to me that the atmosphere in this country since the
Persian Gulf war is like that at a party in a
beautiful home, with everybody being polite and
bubbly. And there is this stink coming from
somewhere, getting worse all the time, and nobody
wants to be the first to mention it.
—Kurt Vonnegut, Letter to the New York Times,
March 27, 1991
HOCUS POCUS
Vonnegut stayed on his college lecture circuit through the
eighties, speaking usually to capacity crowds. But by 1988 he had
stopped altogether, citing the apathy of his audiences to the issues
he had been addressing for his career. He blamed his old nemesis
television in a 1990 interview for the Chicago Tribune:
I think TV has distanced people from everything that’s going on.

TV requires no response from the audience whatsoever. They like
105
106 KURT VONNEGUT
it or they don’t like it, but it’s just another show they watched last
night.
There are perfectly awful messages around and there I was
volunteering to deliver them. What I said in my lectures was that
had my German family remained in Germany instead of coming
over here, how would we have reacted to the rise of Hitler? My
guess was that we wouldn’t have done much about it until it was
too late.
But we face a threat now, and it’s terrible. It’s not as
personalized as Hitler was, but what we’re doing to the biosphere is
going to be as dire as Auschwitz—without IG Farben having to
make poison gas. I felt I should start yelling about that in public
the way I should have been, had I been in Germany in the 1920’s,
yelling about Hitler coming to power. (September 2, 1990)
Vonnegut’s disappointment with the 1980’s is expressed in Hocus

Pocus (1990), perhaps his most pessimistic book to date. It is
classic Vonnegut. Two months shy of 68 at the publication of his
thirteenth novel, Hocus Pocus does just about everything Vonnegut
has been successful with over his forty-year career.
The novel is composed of the scribblings of Eugene Debs
Hartke, Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army and last
American to be airlifted from the roof of the American Embassy in
Saigon, marking the U.S.’s embarrassing withdrawal from
Vietnam. Hartke writes from the future, the year 2001, in an
America Vonnegut perceived as the logical extension of behavior
he witnessed in the Reagan years. The country is bankrupt, having
sold most of itself to foreign interests. Du Pont is a subsidiary of
Germany’s IG Farben; the New York Times is published by
Koreans; Anheuser-Busch is owned by Italians; and the Japanese
treat their vast percentage of America much the same way
America treated Vietnam: they are an Army occupying a nation.
Japanese holdings of note include Blue Cross/Blue Shield, hosp-
itals, and prisons, which have been privatized and run for profit.
One such venture is the New York State Maximum Security
Adult Correctional Institution at Athena, across the lake from
Hartke’s post at Tarkington College, a small school for the dim
EVEN LATER WORKS 107
children of the upper class. The Foucauldian relationship between

these neighboring institutions is drawn early and made clear when
Hartke loses his teaching job at Tarkington for sexual misconduct
and poor patriotism, and relocates across the lake to the all-Black
and Hispanic prison. Racism has exploded to such a degree by
2001 that when the inmates pull off a jailbreak and make across
the frozen lake and lay siege to Tarkington (an event at least partly
ameliorated by the lessened student population on break), Hartke
is accused of being the mastermind, since it is thought that the
inmates couldn’t possibly have pulled it off on their own. He is
jailed in the same prison.
Hocus Pocus is Vonnegut’s continued disillusion with American
culture. This should not surprise readers of even one single other
Vonnegut text, but in Hocus Pocus he appears to be exacerbated to
the degree that the humor, where present, is at its darkest.
Vonnegut keeps himself out of the book. As in Mother Night
the book greets us not with a personal note from the author but
from a pretended “Editor’s Note,” in which he has avowed to
allow the narrator Hartke to tell his own story. The absence of
autobiographical material places the onus of sociological comment
on Vietnam veteran Hartke, “whose concerns with national
policy,” according to Vonnegut scholar Jerome Klinkowitz, “make
it Vonnegut’s most committed fictive work of social and political
argument” (Vonnegut in Fact 132).
Hartke’s dystopia is shadowed by his experiences as a
commander in Vietnam. As he recalls his youth, he spends great
effort tracing the line of circumstances under which he forewent
his acceptance to the University of Michigan and a degree in
journalism for certain grooming as an officer at West Point. He
interjects his thoughts on his life in Vietnam sporadically in his
narration, effecting the reader to understand the gravity of what he
experienced there. Because at the time he writes he is a changed
man—or at least a changing man—his insights on American
action in Vietnam have a special authenticity.
Hartke spent his last year in Vietnam working in public
information, spinning tales of American blunders to the press. We
have seen Vonnegut’s attitudes towards public relations people
108 KURT VONNEGUT
before; his own experiences in that trade at General Electric have

supplied many of his harsher words against those who would
compromise truth—and, ultimately, democracy—for self-interest
or, in the case of American involvement in Vietnam, to save face.
But Hartke’s old post in information doesn’t just expose
government doublespeak: he is in effect a double-agent, that tried
and true Vonnegut archetype, since he is on the other side now. It is
Vonnegut’s intention and expectation that this other side is our side.
It is the narrator’s position as a disillusioned commander, an
erstwhile insider addressing the rest of the world, a one-time
public relations man who has decided to write the truth, who
makes this kind of information available to Vonnegut. Klinkowitz
observes that the author must keep his autobiography out of
Hocus Pocus in order to comment on an era that does not belong
to him. Vonnegut’s criticisms must be voiced through the fictitious
Hartke because:
beginning with the Vietnam War and following through the

internationalization of American business and industry during the
1990s, they are not exclusively of Kurt Vonnegut’s self or
generation. For once, his autobiography is not at issue; rather, just
as a general knowledge of Darwinian science carries the reader into
Galapagos and even a rudimentary knowledge of American art
history does the same in Bluebeard, a character speaking for a span
of history Kurt Vonnegut has himself addressed as a spokesperson
must bear the fictive burden. (Vonnegut in Fact 132)
To put it another way, Vonnegut must give up on blatant auto-

biographical comment because his points here are better made by
someone closer to the action, even if that person is a fiction.
So through Hartke we learn how the stoned, drunk, and
hapless soldiers of Vietnam were responsible for “several of the
most gruesome accidents I had to explain,” all of which were
ascribed to “human error” (Hocus Pocus 28). He tells the story of a
15-year-old Viet Cong sniper caught and mutilated by American
troops. Hartke makes it clear that he would never condone such
actions under his command, relating how he even stopped the
less-visceral habit of one of his platoons who were leaving aces of

spades on the bodies of enemies. He notes then:
What a footsoldier can do to a body with his pip-squeak tech-

nology is nothing, of course, when compared with the ordinary,
unavoidable, perfectly routine effects of aerial bombing and
artillery. One time I saw the severed head of a bearded old man
resting on the guts of an eviscerated water buffalo, covered with
flies in a bomb crater by a paddy in Cambodia. The plane whose
bomb made the crater was so high that it couldn’t even be seen
from the ground. But what the bomb did, I would have to say, sure
beat the ace of spades for a calling card. (46)
As much as Vietnam is an embarrassment and preoccupation

for Hartke and Vonnegut, it is only one of the broader issues the
author would like to expose as American foppery from the last
fifty years. Central is the notion that the very rich, the American
ruling class, have betrayed what little responsibility they once had
to the country and have “taken the money and run,” as it were.
“You once had people like Andrew Carnegie and Henry Ford who
were just nuts about manufacturing,” Vonnegut told the Chicago
Tribune. “You couldn’t get them away from the damn factory, the
noise and glamour of it. And all that’s died down.” In his view,
these less-motivated captains of industry, the descendants of those
who built their fortunes, are too lazy or stupid (like the student
body of Tarkington College), or in any case too far removed to
control the family fortune:
You know, all the Rockefeller heirs—I know several of them and
they’re nice enough people—but they want the capital. They don’t
want the responsibility for this broad spectrum of businesses that
the Rockefeller fortune is invested in. They don’t know anything
about manufacturing. They don’t know anything about chemistry.
They don’t know anything about math. They don’t know anything
about labor relations and they don’t want to. They just want to sell
it and get the $17 million or $3 million or whatever and redecorate
the house. (September 2, 1990)
110 KURT VONNEGUT
The process that began with the automation of factories, which, of

course, replaced humans with machines, thereby requiring less
management eventuates in “the selling off of everything in favor of
one last generation’s self-privilege” (Vonnegut in Fact 132). Amer-
ica in Hocus Pocus is in shambles, and the withdrawal of vast sums
from circulation, and worse yet, the apathy of the new proprietors
is not helping. When the prison break occurs at Athena, the
Japanese guards run and hide in the surrounding forest. “This
wasn’t their country, and guarding prisons wasn’t a sacred mission
or anything like that. It was just a business” (Hocus Pocus 85).
Vietnam and the increasing foreign proprietorship of America
are only two of the biggest headlines of bad news. Racism has
effectively segregated society once again, and the final burst of the
overpopulated correctional facility at Athena (which has seen
exponential growth while Tarkington’s enrollment remained at a
static three hundred) is, as The Nation puts it, “right out of Uncle
Tom’s Cabin” (Leonard 424). Television is held accountable for its
muddling of reality in the American mind:
I told Donner the Warden wanted to see him, but he didn’t seem
to know who I was. I felt as though I were trying to wake up a
mean drunk. I used to have to do that a lot in Vietnam. A couple
of times the mean drunks were Generals. The worst was a visiting
Congressman.
I thought I might have to fight Donner before he realized that
Howdy Doody wasn’t the main thing going on. (Hocus Pocus 232)
And:
Life was like an ocean liner to a lot of people who weren’t in

prison, too, of course. And their TV sets were portholes through
which they could look while doing nothing, to see all the World
was doing with no help from them.
Look at it go! (230)
So many of these modern ills are symptomatic of “the

complicated futility of ignorance,” the label Hartke tags the
numerous attempts of the uneducated Tarkington College’s

founder to create a perpetual motion machine. Just as the three
years of labor, precious metals and exotic woods that went into
their creation might have been put to better use if he had been
schooled in the most basic precepts of physics, a modicum of
knowledge of world events could counter what ignorance has done
to “this whole ruined planet” (14).
Hocus Pocus is a Vonnegut novel proper. Its concerns are
consistent with Vonnegut’s focus since Player Piano. Automation
and lack of usefulness breeds apathy. Little things, like Hartke’s
scraps of paper that are the medium of the novel, are the chance
events that determine life. Hartke finds himself at the mercy of
someone else’s created fiction, namely his commanding officers,
who force him to spin the losses of the Vietnam War into
successes. “I was a genius of lethal Hocus Pocus!” he says of his
wartime justifications (154). There aren’t any villains, or at least, as
Vonnegut has noted before, they aren’t people. “The biggest
character in Hocus Pocus (excluding myself of course),” writes
Vonnegut in his special preface to the book’s Franklin Library
edition, “is imperialism, the capture of other societies’ lands and
people and treasure by means of state-of-the-art wounding and
killing machines, which is to say armies and navies” (Fates 130).
So, too, is Eugene Debs Hartke a narrator like Karebekian,
Starbuck, and Waltz and even Leon Trotsky Trout, who looks back
over his life from a prison whether literal or figurative, deciding
whether or not to issue a mea culpa on his life. While these
narrators find their destinies to be (like Darwinian evolution)
combinations of chance and genetic or biochemical
predisposition, the act of recalling affects a change or resignation
on the part of the viewpoint character. Here, Hartke moves closer
as the novel unfolds from his murderous, womanizing past to
something more like his namesakes, repeat presidential candidate
Eugene V. Debs and outspoken Vietnam detractor Senator Vance
Hartke.
Vonnegut’s glimpse of America in 2001 is one of his most
gruesome projections. The novel ends with Hartke in jail awaiting
his trial for masterminding the jailbreak, wrongly accused. Of the
112 KURT VONNEGUT
few positives Vonnegut allows to come out of the story are

Hartke’s understanding of the buffoonery that has created his
current environment, and the fact that he is qualified as a
spokesman to point out society’s foolhardiness in court.
Perhaps due to Vonnegut’s insistence that writing is good ther-
apy, he was able to resume his tour on the college lecture circuit
after the publication of Hocus Pocus. Fates Worse Than Death, his
second “autobiographical collage,” appeared just one year later in
1991. Like Wampeters and Palm Sunday it reprints his most telling
and harder to access essays, though Fates is heavier on connecting
material than was its forbear Palm Sunday. It addresses some of his
most personal events, including his own suicide attempt in 1984.
Vonnegut had grown increasingly tiresome of writing after
Hocus Pocus, and for years he wrestled with his fourteenth novel,
Timequake, giving up on it several times in the six years between
Fates and its publication.
During this time Vonnegut worked on his silkscreen art with
Lexington-based artist Joe Petro III. Their collaboration for an
Absolut vodka advertisement began as a joke, but Petro
encouraged Vonnegut to continue. He had already a pre-
disposition to create art: he drew in his books occasionally since
Slaughterhouse-Five; his father and grandfather had both turned to
painting later in life; his sister and several of his children showed
both promise and realization as artists. He produces silkscreens to
this day in collaboration with Petro, selling prints of his work on
the website, www.vonnegut.com. The hobby for Vonnegut, writes
Klinkowitz, “would occupy his future while once more gathering
purpose from his past” (Vonnegut in Fact, 8).
By 1996 he had trashed the reluctantly nascent Timequake yet
again. He told the Denver Post during a benefit featuring his prints
for the Denver Public Library, “I spent four years working on
another novel for Putnam. It was called Timequake, but I didn’t
like it, so I dropped it. I don’t plan to go out with a piece of —”
(September 14, 1996). The same article mentions that he’s
working on his memoir, and it is perhaps most indicative of
Vonnegut’s predilection toward experiment that by 1997 the two
would be combined into his most unorthodox novel yet.
TIMEQUAKE
“This is an experiment that I’m performing in my head and it
turns out to be so complicated that to do it justice, after farting
around with it, the responsibilities that I’ve saddled myself with
are just enormous” (Reed and Leeds 38).
The premise is that for reasons unknown on February 13,
2001, the universe stopped expanding and instead, collapsed a
distance of ten years, sending the entire world back in time to
whatever they were doing on February 21, 1991. Everyone has to
live every moment of the last ten years over again, unable to do
anything differently, unable to say anything differently, unable
even to know if this is happening to anyone else but themselves.
As he has lamented in the past, and as he explains in the
prologue, the novel would not work. Reaching his seventy-fourth
birthday, he opted to dissect the best parts of the story and mix
them like a “stew” with his own thoughts and reminiscences, the
tenor of which is much like his prose in Fates Worse Than Death.
The resulting book is something only Vonnegut could get away
with: bits of memoirs with a novel running through them, and a
fantastic novel at that. Vonnegut takes part in the timequake too,
taking care to “count the rerun” in his reminiscences. He records
conversations between himself and Kilgore Trout, who is, of course,
a fiction. In this sense he is more involved in Timequake than in
any of his previous works, save perhaps Slaughterhouse-Five.
The result of living ten years of life over again is that everyone is
“on autopilot” when “free will” kicks in again. People have become
so much the passive observers of their own lives that no one thinks
to be agents in their lives. The consequences are on the level of a
Vonnegutian cataclysm. First, millions of people fell down,
“because the weight on their feet had been unevenly distributed
when free will kicked in” (Timequake, 105); but “the real mayhem”
was caused by planes, trucks, cars, and other “self-propelled forms
of transportation,” whose pilots expected the vehicle to fly or drive
itself, like it had for ten years.
Kilgore Trout gets much of the fictional happenings in Time-
quake, as the eighty-four-year old still writing bad science fiction
with a purpose. Vonnegut gets to chat with him at a clambake
114 KURT VONNEGUT
taking place in the writer’s colony called Xanadu after time catches
up with itself; these conversations and his paraphrased short
stories, as usual, supply much of the commentary, though it is
liable to come from anywhere.
Timequake features many of Trout’s stories, which, as they have
always been, are hyperbolic science fiction tales where allegory is
far more important than the story itself. Vonnegut remarks on
their origin, saying, “I still think up short stories from time to
time, as though there were money in it. The habit dies hard.... All
I do with short stories ideas now is rough them out, credit them to
Kilgore Trout, and put them in a novel” (15). This explains their
brevity and poor development—characteristics which have long
been the charm of Trout’s fiction. Trout’s jeremiad to a fellow bum
who suggests he might make money with his stories at the
American Academy of Arts and Letters, which neighbor his
homeless shelter, is easily synecdochic of Vonnegut’s larger career:
“If I’d wasted my time creating characters,” Trout said, “I would

never have gotten around to calling attention to things that really
matter: irresistible forces of nature, and cruel inventions, and
cockamamie ideals and governments and economies that make
heroes and heroines alike feel like something the cat drug in.”
To which Vonnegut adds:
Trout might have said, and it can be said of me as well, that he

created caricatures rather than characters. His animus against so-
called mainstream literature, moreover, wasn’t peculiar to him. It
was generic among writers of science fiction. (63)
Trout, the first to understand what had happened when the

rerun is over, has the task of rousing everyone into willfulness
again. Not everyone is happy about the prospect of making
choices in an absurd, unpredictable universe again. “You know
what you can do with free will?” asks Dudley Prince, an African-
American who served seven years of hard time framed for the rape
and murder of a ten-year-old. “You can stuff it up your ass” (167).
Still, because of the chaos of cars and trucks crashing into

buildings, and planes that are truly “on autopilot” running out of
fuel, the senior citizen Trout must set humanity into action again.
His magic words to break people from their trance are “You were
sick, but now you’re well, and there’s work to do” (167). Thus
Trout in allegory plays the role Vonnegut has made for himself in
his career: the world is destroying itself around him, and Vonnegut
must find the right words to break the apathy of the rest of the
world.
On this account, Vonnegut takes every opportunity to
editorialize in Timequake, still creating melancholy but humorous
invectives against his lifelong nemeses. Of America’s continued
continued love-affair with weapons he writes: “That there are such
devices as firearms, as easy to operate as cigarette lighters and as
cheap as toasters, capable at anybody’s whim of killing Father or
Fats [Waller] or Abraham Lincoln or John Lennon or Martin
Luther King, Jr., or a woman pushing a baby carriage, should be
proof enough for anybody that, to quote the old science fiction
writer Kilgore Trout, ‘being alive is a crock of shit’ ” (2-3). He
postulates that “we poison the water and air and topsoil, and
construct ever more cunning doomsday devices” because, and here
he quotes Thoreau, “ ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet
desperation.’ ” His pessimism is unrelenting: “For practically
everybody, the end of the world can’t come soon enough” (2).
It is clear from Trout’s story, “The Sisters of B-36,” that
Vonnegut’s latter-day Luddism had not faded in the wake of the
digitization of America in the 1990’s. Two of the three sisters are
artists that write short stories and paint paintings important to the
development of the imaginations of young Booboolings,
inhabitants of the planet Booboo—the big brains of young
Booboolings become programmed to imagine and to behave
appropriately by growing circuits in response to their art. The
third sister, a scientist who learned calculus and thermodynamics
from lunatics in an asylum she played in as a child, became jealous
of her sisters’ popularity, and so she invented and marketed
television to make her sisters feel “like something the cat drug in.”
Television became extremely popular, and “[y]oung Booboolings
116 KURT VONNEGUT
didn’t see any point in developing imaginations anymore, since all

they had to do was turn on a switch and see all kinds of jazzy shit.”
The scientist succeeded in breaking her sister’s spirits but the bad
sister was still unpopular and boring, so she goes on to develop
cars and computers and weapons of war. The resulting lack of
imagination and human contact makes Booboolings “among the
most merciless creatures in the local family of galaxies” (17–18).
For Vonnegut, community is among the most important facets
of a tolerable human life, and the malevolence of television has as
much to do with its ability to put us in complacent loneliness as
its bane to the imagination. Plays, he says, evoke so much
emotional and ethical force because of the conviviality of the
audience. The plays he encountered in his youth have as much
impact on him today because “I was immobilized in a
congregation of rapt fellow human beings in a theatre when I first
saw and heard them. They would have made no more of an
impression on me than Monday Night Football, had I been alone
eating nachos and gazing into the face of a cathode-ray tube” (22).
Television isolates people from each other, bearing directly on our
emotional capacity.
The rise of computers—and their conspicuous movement to
ever smaller, less conspicuous sizes (from the monstrosity of
EPICAC in Vonnegut’s Player Piano to the tiny microchip)—only
bolsters his contention in his first novel that technology comes at
the expense of human dignity. Architect Frank Pepper commits
suicide when a computer program called Palladio designs an
implausible three-story parking garage in thirty minutes. After
Frank’s death, his brother Zoltan asks, “Why is it so important
that we all be humiliated, with such ingenuity and at such great
expense? We never thought we were such hot stuff in the first
place” (45).
He continues his diatribe against capitalism:
Why throw money at problems? That is what money is for.

Should the nation’s wealth be redistributed? It has and
continues to be redistributed to a few people in a manner
strikingly unhelpful. (163–164)
Interspersed in Timequake are solutions for improvement in the

form of new amendments to the Constitution. The four are
codifications of so much he has written over fifty years, especially
economic inequity, and the role of the individual in the larger
community.
Article XXVII: Every newborn shall be sincerely welcomed and

cared for until maturity.
Article XXIX: Every adult who needs it shall be given
meaningful work to do, at a living wage.
Article XXX: Every person, upon reaching a statutory age of
puberty, shall be declared an adult in a solemn public ritual, during
which he or she must welcome his or her new responsibilities in
the community, and their attendant dignities.
Article XXXI: Every effort shall be made to make every person
feel that he or she will be sorely missed when he or she is gone.
(152, 175)
“Such essential elements in an ideal diet for human spirit, of

course,” Vonnegut adds, “can be provided convincingly only by
extended families” (175).
The last Article is indicative of Vonnegut’s sense that his life is
nearly over in the summer of 1996, when much of the personal
and editorial content for the book was written. At the clambake in
Xanadu, Vonnegut gathers his old family, friends, and associates,
living or dead, real or not. The attendees are not there to see him,
but his invocation of so many figures from his life is clearly his
goodbye. Vonnegut had considered Timequake his last book,
saying so even in the prologue. Valerie Sayers’ gratified review in
the New York Times notes it “was obviously inspired by a sense that
his life’s work was winding down” (Sayers 14). Vonnegut has
started another novel since titled “If God Were Alive Today.” He
remarked on why he began another novel after he made it clear
that Timequake was his adieu. “I didn’t know. I thought I was
going to die” (Abel, 1).
The gathering at Xanadu is a funeral of a kind, however. The
pretext is a cast party for the production of Abe Lincoln in Illinois,
118 KURT VONNEGUT
and those present “were mourning not only Lincoln, but the death
of American eloquence” (204). Lincoln’s farewell speech is recorded
in the book, and it moves the audience so much that the
curmudgeonly Kilgore Trout sobs at its beauty.
That it is a funeral is in keeping with Timequake’s one great
leitmotif, memory. The vivid recollections of Vonnegut’s beloved
family members, of his sister Alice and his brother Bernard, who
had recently passed at the time of Timequake’s authoring, of his
influential Uncle Alex, of his mother in her fatal materialism and
his father in his art-centered eccentricity, haunt the novel, break
up the narrative, and make it obvious that they are “sorely
missed.”
Even though Timequake was Vonnegut’s last novel, his name
continued to appear in review columns. His friend and critic Peter
Reed collected twenty-three shorter works from Vonnegut’s early
career in Bagombo Snuff Box (1999). The same year, Seven Stories
Press printed God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian, a light-hearted
collection of twenty-one “interviews” the author conducted in
Heaven with the departed, including such figures as Isaac Newton
and Adolf Hitler with the lesser-known, like Harold Epstein and
Peter Pellegrino, whose fervent loves of gardening and hot-air
ballooning exemplify earthly happiness. The interviews were
originally radio spots for WNYC, the Manhattan Public Radio
station, and proceeds from the book benefited that organization.
“It does what no commercial TV or radio station can afford to do
anymore,” Vonnegut wrote in the introduction. WNYC satisfies
people’s right to know—as contrasted with, as abject slaves of
high-roller publicists and advertisers, keeping the public vacantly
diverted and entertained” (12).
Vonnegut survived a cigarette-sparked house fire on Superbowl
Sunday in 2000—getting away with smoke inhalation after the
onetime volunteer firefighter tried to extinguish the blaze himself.
In 2001 he taught creative writing at Smith College in
Northampton, Massachusetts, while he continued work on “If
God Were Alive Today.” He was also named State Author for New
York. The novel remains in-progress, and until its publication, we
may look forward to the work of countless young writers he has
inspired with his novels and teaching. When a Smith

undergraduate had Vonnegut critique her short story, which she
described as “a heartwarming account of her grandmother’s
death,” he suggested it was too gushy, and offered, “have you ever
thought of making your grandmother insane?”
CHAPTER E IG HT
The Man with

Something to Say
A Vonnegut book is not cute or precious. It is

literally awful, for Vonnegut is one of the few writers
able to lift the lid of the garbage can, and
dispassionately examine the contents….
—J. Michael Crichton, New Republic
KURT VONNEGUT WROTE HIMSELF into American literature and

history over the course of the second half of the last century, both
with what he had to say and how he said it. There is a consistency
in his messages, a bevy of recurring themes, and an uncanny
writing style spanning his canon, in spite of how various his works
may be.
Perhaps because of the overwhelming success of Slaughterhouse-
Five, with its aliens and time travel, elements of the fantastic in
Vonnegut’s work have been extant in the eyes of readers. Especially
earlier in his writing, there was a need to defend against attempts
to label Vonnegut a writer of science fiction. Over the years,
though, the author and his critics have demonstrated that the
fantastic in his novels is secondary to the text.
Vonnegut himself has likened the extraordinary moments in his
books to Shakespeare’s use of clowns—part of an effort to lighten
120
THE MAN WITH SOMETHING TO SAY 121
the reader after a bleak or morose turn. Here is the humorist in

Vonnegut.
Commonly, though, the science fiction backdrops function as
props used by the author to make his statement on the human
condition. Dan Wakefield made the contrast between Vonnegut’s
craft and the genre of science fiction succinctly in The Vonnegut
Statement. Wakefield is not a fan of the fantastic:
By that I mean I don’t like books that have green monsters with
five arms, and lost tribes that are ruled by electronic lizards.
But Vonnegut’s “science-fiction” wasn’t like that at all. It was
about people, doing things that people might do if things had
turned out just a little bit differently; or maybe if we knew more
about what was really going on. (Klinkowitz and Somer 62)
The other-worldly gives Vonnegut a chance to show what is

happening here in ours; it is a way of exposing (negative)
influences that might make things “turn out a little differently,” or
a means of pointing out “what is really going on.” Peter J. Reed
notes the utility of his style, saying that “the fantastic offers
perception into the quotidian, rather than escape from it” (Reed,
Fantastic Faces 77). If Vonnegut didn’t appear to be having so
much fun using fantasy in his books, one almost senses that he
includes these elements grudgingly—as if his message necessitates
the form.
This method and purpose in light of a rather timely
iconoclasm places his fiction squarely in the realm of satire. Like
other great satirists, he rails against perceived wrongs and
insouciances of society around him. Some of the earliest
academic criticism he received set him in a tradition with the
likes of Jonathan Swift and Voltaire. “His novels have something
of Swift in them,” wrote Jerry Bryant in his 1970 survey of
contemporary literature, “not merely in the canny pokes he takes
at human weakness and the status quo, but a kind of fantasy that
allows him, as it allowed Swift, to isolate the objects of his attack
and praise” (Bryant, 303).
In literary history, though, Vonnegut has expressed an affinity,
122 KURT VONNEGUT
above all, to the man after whom he named his first-born: Mark
Twain. Twain’s name was invoked conspicuously by Granville
Hicks in his 1969 treatment of Slaughterhouse-Five in the Saturday
Review. At the time of Hicks’ review, Vonnegut was known (if at
all) to be a science fiction writer with a cult following in regular
consumers of that genre, and in the particularly youthful collegiate
crowd. Hicks told his literary audience of his delight hearing
Vonnegut speak a year earlier at Notre Dame, “as funny a lecture
as I had ever listened to.” He asked his readers to look beyond the
science fiction superficies of Vonnegut’s previous works. “What he
really is,” Hicks wrote, “is a sardonic humorist and satirist in the
vein of Mark Twain and Jonathan Swift.” He added that, like
Twain, “Vonnegut feels sadness as well as indignation when he
looks at the damned human race” (Hicks 25).
Klinkowitz reports the breakthrough in Vonnegut In Fact:
Science fiction, Hicks realized, was at least a tangential concern in

the author’s earlier work: Player Piano, Cat’s Cradle, and God
Bless You, Mr. Rosewater had made great fun of the worship of
science and technology; misfunctions of both were responsible for
catastrophes of plot and hilarities of incident, not to mention a
dim overview of human strivings toward a mechanical ideal.
(Vonnegut In Fact 11–12)
For his own part, Vonnegut speaks of Twain’s writings as a

childhood influence. Twain “encouraged me when I was young to
believe that there was so much that was amusing and beautiful on
this continent that I need not be awed by persons from anywhere
else” (Palm Sunday, 166). Vonnegut was asked to speak at an event
celebrating the centennial of the completion of Mark Twain’s
Connecticut home, he said, because, like Twain, he is
“simultaneously a humorist and serious novelist” (166). He told
those attending that Twain galvanized his atheism: “I was
confirmed in my skepticism by Mark Twain during my formative
years, and by some other good people, too,” adding that he, like
Twain, will be bitter in his later years, because “I will finally realize
that I had it right all along: that I will not see God, that there is no
heaven or Judgment Day” (168). In the speech, Twain’s “innocent

joking about technology and superstition” in A Connecticut Yankee
in King Arthur’s Court is shown to be much like Vonnegut’s work.
Twain’s story has the Yankee and a few dozen other men take their
modern technology to the Dark Ages, killing twenty-five thousand
armed attackers with Gatling guns in the space of ten minutes.
Having reminded the audience that this story was supposed to be
funny, Vonnegut points out that such a “lark” was sadly prescient
of the First World War (169–171).
Vonnegut has also been an active public speaker, and, like
Twain, is unafraid to take up advocacy in those venues. His
attitude toward the role of the writer, in fact, demanded it:
My motives are political. I agree with Stalin and Hitler and

Mussolini that the writer should serve his society. I differ with
dictators as to how writers should serve. Mainly, they should be—
and biologically have to be—agents of change. For the better, we
hope. (76)
He talked about the author’s role as a speaker in the preface to

Wampeters, Foma, and Granfalloons (1974): “I do think…that
public speaking is almost the only way a poet or a novelist or a
playwright can have any political effectiveness in his creative
prime. If he tries to put his politics into a work of the imagination,
he will foul up his work beyond all recognition” (Wampeters, xiv).
Public speaking, then, in light of his motivation for writing, was
inevitable. It is simply the most effective way he can influence
society. Jerome Klinkowitz once reminded Vonnegut in a letter
that Granville Hicks’ review, which was so important in
introducing the author to the literary establishment, came after
Hicks had seen and enjoyed Vonnegut’s lecture at Notre Dame a
year before. Vonnegut wrote back: “It really makes a difference, I
find, if people hear me speak” (Reed and Leeds 59–60).
Of course, Vonnegut would find ways after he wrote those
words to advance more views in his novels without “foul[ing] up
his work beyond all recognition,” editorializing more and speaking
less with age. In public appearances, though, he was able to speak
124 KURT VONNEGUT
to the point, advancing his progressive vision. He finished a 1970

commencement speech at Bennigton College with a plain advocacy
of socialism:
So let’s divide up the wealth of the world more fairly than we

have divided it up so far. Let’s make sure that everybody has
enough to eat, and a decent place to live, and medical help
when he needs it. Let’s stop spending money on weapons,
which don’t work anyway, thank God, and spend money on
each other. It isn’t moonbeams to talk of modest plenty for all.
They have it in Sweden. We can have it here. Dwight David
Eisenhower once pointed out that Sweden, with its many
Utopian programs, had a high rate of alcoholism and suicide
and youthful unrest. Even so, I would like to see America try
socialism. If we start drinking heavily and killing ourselves, and
if our children start acting crazy, we can go back to good old
Free Enterprise again. (Wampeters, 170)
The above is not exceptional in content for the myriad public

speeches Vonnegut has given over the past few decades. Jerome
Klinkowitz has written most extensively of Vonnegut in this role,
linking the author’s dynamism in front of an audience with that in
his books:
With an audience present, one can witness Vonnegut’s prop-

osing and responding, acting and reacting, drawing on his own
experience to meld it with the experiences of his listeners in
order to produce a work that succeeds as performance. It is an
analog to what he accomplishes on the printed page, where the
same living presence engages a subject matter that is part
historical and part fabrication, but which in combination
becomes an action painting with words. (Reed and Leeds 71)
Vonnegut lines up on the left in all his views. “If there’s a liberal
cause,” David Streitfeld wrote in the Washington Post in 1991,
“he’s willing, cigarette in hand, to lend his support” (Streitfeld
c.01 ). Yet despite the perception of Vonnegut as a radical, he
protests that his beliefs stem from anything but old-fashioned

American values. He told Playboy that “everything I believe I was
taught in junior civics during the Great Depression—at School 43
in Indianapolis, with full approval of the school board”
(Conversations 103). His pacifism, he points out, was the attitude
of the entire, isolationist nation before America was made to enter
World War II, and he holds the Germans and the Japanese
accountable for forcing America to take up arms. He fights against
American reluctance to lessen its standing army, to disarm:
America should wane to a nation that does not consider war
inevitable. Building and maintaining nuclear weapons is especially
ridiculous.
He relates in the prologue to Jailbird that he cast ballots for the
Socialist ticket the first time he voted in a national election. “I
believed that socialism would be good for the common man. As a
private first class in the infantry, I was surely a common man”
(Jailbird, xii). Vonnegut’s socialism is an extension of his interest
in the plight of the worker and the labor movement in America.
The technological advancements he witnessed first-hand at
General Electric, too, gave him insight into a world where people
were rapidly being replaced by machines, and where
environmental concerns were a concession to progress. There is a
strong correlative, for Vonnegut, between dignity and meaningful
work; he saw this in his own life as his father’s sense of worth was
diminished over the ten years he went without a commission. A
structured, socialist atmosphere where work is provided for those
who want it would augment dignity, at least.
With so much in Vonnegut’s view to be changed—and with a
good deal of urgency, too—it is unsurprising that he looks on the
world with pessimism. Harry Reasoner cornered Vonnegut as a
pessimist in a 1969 interview. Vonnegut answered, “Well, things
do seem to get worse” (Conversations 17).
His grim presentation, though, is an important part of his
message. Painting a disaster doesn’t do any good if people don’t
feel bad after seeing it. Vonnegut says that Dr. Strangelove, for
example, “sent people home utterly satisfied.” “I’m sure that
everyone that ever sees that picture sleeps soundly afterward and
126 KURT VONNEGUT
feels nothing more ever needs to be done” (Conversations 235). In

contrast, Harold Bloom remembers his “shocked admiration” for
Slaughterhouse-Five on his first read—“a very disturbing and
disturbed book,” that he was “not looking forward to
encountering again” (Bloom 1).
We may add to the Vonnegutian preoccupations of war,
socioeconomics, and environmentalism that of mental illness.
Frequently, Vonnegut’s protagonists are depressed and even
certifiably insane. Suicides abound. Vonnegut has explained the
prevalence by citing it as a very real fact of human experience—
his own experiences with depression, his mother’s suicide, and his
son Mark’s battle with manic depression have informed this view.
And since he feels that mental instability has everything to do
with our inherited chemical compositions, insanity, too, is a
matter of fate.
Lawrence Broer’s Sanity Plea: Schizophrenia in the Novels of Kurt
Vonnegut points out that “there actually comes a moment in every
Vonnegut novel when the hero is driven to or over the edge of
insanity—when contrasts between the world as orderly, rational,
and humane and the world as a slaughterhouse of ongoing
violence and cruelty become too unbalancing to endure” (Broer
6). Broer’s book actually presents the well-supported opinion that
Vonnegut’s novels are not altogether pessimistic and fatalist—that
those attitudes are just one side of the schizoid nature of
Vonnegut’s characters, who are split between the “self that affirms”
and the “self that denies.” “In one novel after another, we witness
the sometimes despairing, sometimes hopeful efforts of Vonnegut’s
fragmented protagonists to put their disintegrated selves together
again—to resist the various forms of moral escapism that paralyze
their creative will and to achieve a wholeness of spirit” (Broer 10-
11). The central concern of every one of Vonnegut’s novels,
according to Broer, is whether the character will reconcile the
dichotomy of his ego, half of which has a will to be.
In terms of a more generalized wretchedness—the sort of poor
mental health experienced by characters in his novels largely from
Slapstick on—the diminished mental and emotional self is a
symptom of the loss of a supportive family. Following his
instruction in anthropology at the University of Chicago, he came

to the conclusion that our biology makes us want to live in the
intimate, sharing groups of people living in an extended family
expounded by Dr. Robert Redfield. “[W]e are full of chemicals
which require us to belong to folk societies,” Vonnegut told the
National Institute of Arts and Letters, “or failing that, to feel lousy
all the time” (Wampeters 180). He concluded an address to the
American Psychiatric Association as follows:
All of you, I am sure, when writing a prescription for mildly

depressed patients, people nowhere as sick as my mother or my son
were, have had a thought on this order: “I am so sorry to have to
put you on the outside of a pill. I would give anything if I could
put you inside the big, warm life support system of an extended
family instead.” (Fates 35)
Thus Eliot Rosewater’s insanity is, if not cured, at least

reconciled by his legal adoption of all who claim to be his
offspring; and Karebekian’s depressive loneliness is alleviated by
an artificial family in his household. That Vonnegut feels the
bulk of American anxieties stem from sheer loneliness cannot be
overstated. Vonnegut seems to accept, though, that the close
extended family is irrecoverable in America. He will settle for
artificial systems of support—or even simple acts of decency
toward one another.
“I admire Christianity more than anything—Christianity as
symbolized by gentle people sharing a common bowl”
(Conversations 82). Except for the congregational environment of
the church—which is adequate in his view as an artificial family—
religions, with their attempts to make sense of the universe, are
among the most ridiculous of mankind’s ventures. The absurd,
chaotic, random universe supercedes the possibility of a caring
God. “I beg you to believe in the most ridiculous superstition of
all,” Vonnegut jibed in a 1970 commencement speech “that
humanity is at the center of the universe, the fulfiller or the
frustrator of the grandest dreams of God Almighty” (Wampeters
165). The notion that humans are of any concern to the universe is
128 KURT VONNEGUT
unfounded, and the anthropocentrism engendered by that belief is

undeserving. “What could we do or say that could possibly interest
Thee?” asks the Reverend C. Horner Redwine of the Church of
God the Utterly Indifferent in The Sirens of Titan (Sirens 215).
In that book, Rumfoord proselytizes that humanity can be
saved from those who claim to do the will of God by professing
that God has no will. Chance, luck, accidents determine the
course of life. That there is no meaning or causality in any event
aligns Vonnegut with an existentialist school of thought: even
though we might have the freedom to make choices, the absurd,
meaningless universe makes any rational choice impossible.
Thanks to his fatalism, Vonnegut’s pedigree is a great factor in
his life and fiction. Most people feel that they could have been
born elsewhere, and into different circumstances. Vonnegut has no
trouble imagining how his life might have been. What if he was
born a German, instead of a German-American? In his 1966
introduction to Mother Night (1961), about an American
playwright living in Germany who is so engrossed in German
culture he becomes a Nazi propagandist, he posits that, had his
family remained in Germany, he “would have been a Nazi,
bopping Jews and gypsies and Poles around, leaving boots sticking
out of snowbanks, warming myself with my secretly virtuous
insides” (Mother Night vii).
This has lent itself to a sensitivity of his German background.
Robert Merrill reports that Vonnegut has only once directly
identified himself as a German-American (Reed and Leeds 76). He
once declined to testify on the atrocity of the Dresden massacre in
a film because “I had a German name. I didn’t want to argue with
people who thought Dresden should have been bombed to hell”
(Hayman et al. 70). He recollects this discomfort in his last novel,
Timequake (1997):
When I took a job in Boston as an advertising copywriter, because

I was broke, an account executive asked me what kind of a name
Vonnegut was. I said, “German.” He said, “Germans killed six
million of my cousins.” (Timequake 42–43)
Vonnegut has sensed the host of connections his background

implies, and the implications of this marginalization appear in his
fiction. Merrill points out that in the earlier Slaughterhouse-Five
and Mother Night, “Vonnegut works very hard to avoid trafficking
in the more obvious stereotypes.” Mother Night, for instance,
features “a collection of American Nazis to balance their German
counterparts.” And Slaughterhouse-Five reserves the bulk of its crit-
ique for the Allied act of melting Dresden. “The Germans of
Slaughterhouse-Five appear briefly, but collectively they constitute a
very sympathetic human community—realistically diverse but
marked by several genuine ‘characters’ and no villains” (Merrill
79–80).
Frequently, a character finds himself at odds with his heredity,
born into circumstances he cannot control. This is especially true
in Vonnegut’s later works, where the problem in the novel is not
imminent cataclysm, but internal guilt. Rudy Waltz of Deadeye
Dick (who is demonstrably a personification of Vonnegut) has
parents who resemble Vonnegut’s in every way, except that his
father wallows in his German heritage, even befriending Hitler in
his youth and only withdrawing from the relationship when
World War II makes it impossible. Rudy fails to overcome the
guilt of his past. Only in his later novel Bluebeard does a
protagonist (Rabo Karebekian) “overcome first the problems he
inherits from his parents, then the mistakes he commits in
compensating for his childhood” (Reed and Leeds 81).
In importance and frequency, the problematic nature of
fiction features in his work as heavily as any other
preoccupations. Repeatedly, Vonnegut shows that people try to
imitate the unrealistic world of stories in reality. One result is the
expectation that reality will behave like a story. Television is a
prime culprit. This problem has only been amplified by the vast
number of conflicts and (more importantly) resolutions we see
on television everyday, to the extent that we expect the world to
entertain us. Playboy asked the author to what he attributed the
“spectacular failure” of the 1972 McGovern campaign against
Richard Nixon:
130 KURT VONNEGUT
He failed as an actor. He couldn’t create on camera a character we

could love or hate. So America voted to have his show taken off the
air. The American audience doesn’t care about an actor’s private life,
doesn’t want his show continued simply because he’s honorable and
truthful and has the best interests of the nation at heart in private
life. Only one thing matters: Can he jazz us up on camera? This is a
national tragedy, of course—that we’ve changed from a society to an
audience. And poor McGovern did what any actor would have
done with a failing show. He blamed the scripts, junked a lot of his
old material, which was actually beautiful, called for new material,
which was actually old material that other performers had had some
luck with. He probably couldn’t have won, though, even if he had
been Clark Gable. (Conversations 101–102)
Furthermore, people unwittingly try to fulfill these fictions. “We

live more according to literary stereotypes and dramatic
stereotypes than we know,” (Conversations 234). Dr. Felix
Hoenikker of Cat’s Cradle was based on the General Electric
research scientist Irving Langmuir, who fit the stereotype of the
absent-minded scientist uncannily. Vonnegut claims that
Langmuir and others permitted themselves to shun responsibility
for the consequences of their discoveries because there were
literary forbears for their roles. “I think there were literary models
then of pure scientists and their absent-mindedness…and many
scientists gladly fell into this stereotype of absent-mindedness and
indifference, including indifference as to what became of their
discoveries” (Conversations 234). Vonnegut is quick to point to the
potential danger here; in Cat’s Cradle, obviously, such permitted
playfulness—based on a fictional model—allowed the
development of the atomic bomb and the destruction of the
world.
At least as far back as Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut had
noticed this tendency and sought to subvert it by specifically not
creating tales with beginnings, middles, and ends. A passage from
Breakfast of Champions where Vonnegut steps into the action is
particularly evocative of his whole thought on the subject:
I thought Beatrice Keedsler [the novelist] had joined hands with

other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life
had leading characters, minor characters, significant details,
insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be
passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end.
As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become more and
more enraged and mystified by the idiot decisions made by my
countrymen. And then I had come suddenly to pity them, for I
understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so
abominably, and with such abominable results: They were doing
their best to live like people invented in story books. This was the
reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a convenient
literary device for ending short stories and books.
Why were so many Americans treated by their government as
though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because
that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in
their made-up tales.
And so on.
Once I understood what was making America such a dangerous,
unhappy nation of people who had nothing to do with real life, I
resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person
would be exactly as important as every other. All facts would also be
given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others
bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I
think I have done. (Breakfast of Champions, 209–210)
He did. James Lundquist shows how:
In a major sense, Vonnegut’s novels represent just such an

adaptation. He moves steadily away from old-fashioned stories of
the sort that lead readers to believe life has leading characters and
minor characters, important details and unimportant details,
lessons to be learned in order to pass tests of physical, psychological,
or spiritual strength, beginnings, middles, ends. By the time
Vonnegut gets to Breakfast of Champions, he has resolved to avoid
storytelling in favor of a kind of writing in which all persons are
equally important and the only moral is to adapt oneself to the
132 KURT VONNEGUT
requirements of chaos rather than to the requirements of an orderly

universe (the most laughable and also the most fatal of illusions).
(Lundquist 101)
In other words, the universe is chaotic, and to present it any other

way is downright dangerous.
This narrative theory leads to much of what critics consider to
be postmodern in Vonnegut’s writing. In calling attention to the
novel as an artifice, rather than a fiction put to the reader as truth,
Vonnegut subverts the text itself, alerting the reader of its
contrived, unreal nature. But Vonnegut has too much to say to be
a postmodernist proper. He offers solutions to the bleakness
described in his novels: the big family, for one. As David Cowart
has it, even if those solutions are unrealistic or unworkable, it is at
least a try.
…the attempt to promote such a meliorist fiction reveals once

again the humane sanity that has always distinguished Vonnegut
and his work. It reveals a principled resistance to the nihilistic
seductions of postmodernism, which more and more
contemporary novelists have instinctively or consciously
recognized as a moral and aesthetic dead end. (Merrill 186)
Cowart concludes that because Vonnegut insists on bringing

meanings and morals into his fiction while utilizing postmodern
devices like black humor, linguistic determination, and self-
reflexivity, he spans modernism and postmodernism. “Vonnegut
plays the game, but he also hangs on to the ideas of meaning and
value” (186).
Ironically, Vonnegut’s career reads the like rise, fall, and
redemption of the Cinderella story he has worked to discount in
his novels. He wrote in relative obscurity in the fifties, taking odd
jobs, teaching positions, and paperback contracts for the money to
support his family. Vonnegut remembered in Timequake that
when a reporter once asked his son Mark “what it had been like to
grow up with a famous father.” He answered, “When I was
growing up, my father was a car salesman who couldn’t get a job
teaching at Cape Cod Junior College” (Timequake 14).

Then one day in Boston a fairy godmother named Sam
Lawrence gave him an invitation to the ball. Rising to national
recognition in the 1960s, he became, in the words of the Village
Voice, “an unexpected ‘paperback writer’ (in the old Beatles tune)
who magically arose from the supermarket stalls to something like
secular sainthood for 10 years or so” (Krim 81). In the seventies,
when the clock struck midnight, Breakfast of Champions—and
especially Slapstick—constituted a fall, in spirit anyway.
Vonnegut’s atonement in Jailbird and the five novels following are
probably as close to happily ever after as he wants to get. He made
the glass slipper fit. He lives on, writing and drawing indefinitely.
“If God Were Alive Today,” a novel-in-progress, is no doubt
awaited by many.
But this, too, is an attempt to turn life into a fiction. An
existence graphed solely on the critical success of his books he has
written leaves out precisely the subject he has been writing about:
humanity. The tragedies and fortunes Vonnegut has lived,
especially since he has tendered so many intimate, autobiographical
details, are a necessary part of his message on the human condition.
WOR K S CITE D
Abel, David. “So It Goes for Vonnegut at Smith, 78-Year-Old Author

Still Shaking Up the Establishment.” The Boston Globe. May 5,
2001: 1.
Allen, W.R., ed. Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut. Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi, 1988.
———. Understanding Kurt Vonnegut. Columbia, South Carolina:
University of South Carolina Press, 1991.
Anderson, Lisa. “Vonnegut’s vision ‘I had such high hopes for the
planet … after everyone had sacrificed so much and behaved so
well’” Chicago Tribune. September 2, 1990: 1.
Bloom, H., ed. Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Modern Critical
Interpretations. Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 2001.
Broer, L.R. Sanity Plea: Schizophrenia in the Novels of Kurt Vonnegut.
Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1989.
Bryant, J.H. The Open Decision: The Contemporary American Novel
and Its Intellectual Background. New York: Free Press, 1970.
Crichton, J. Michael. “Sci-Fi and Vonnegut.” The New Republic.
April 26, 1969: 33–35.
“The Devil’s Work.” Anonymous. New York Times. November 17,
1973.
Giannone, R. Vonnegut: A Preface to His Novels. Port Washington:
Kennikat Press, 1977.
Hassan, Ihab. Liberations. Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University
Press 1971.
Hayman, D., D. Michaelis, et al. “The Art of Fiction LXIV.” The
Paris Review 69:55–103, 1977.
Hicks, G. “Literary Horizons.” Saturday Review. March 29, 1969:
25.
Hill, Gladwin. “Ten Cities Bombed” New York Times. February 15,
1945.
Klinkowitz, J. and J. Somer, eds. The Vonnegut Statement. New York:
Delacorte Press, 1973.
134
Klinkowitz, J. and D.L. Lawler, eds. Vonnegut in America : An
Introduction to the Life and Work of Kurt Vonnegut. New York:
Klinkowitz, J. Kurt Vonnegut. New York: Methuen & Co, 1982.
———. Vonnegut in Fact: The Public Spokesmanship of Personal
Fiction. Columbia, South Carolina: University of South Carolina
Press, 1998.
Kramer, Carol. “Kurt’s College Cult Adopts Him as Literary Guru at
48.” Chicago Tribune. November 15, 1970: 5.1.
Krim, S. “Jailbird Review” The Village Voice. New York: August 20,
1979: 81–82..
Lehmann-Haupt, Christopher. New York Times review. March 31,
1969.
Leonard, J. “Black Magic.” The Nation. 251: 421–425, 1990.
Levin, Martin. “Do Human Beings Matter?: God Bless You, Mr.
Rosewater. Or Pearls Before Swine.” New York Times. April 25,
1965.
Lundquist, J. Kurt Vonnegut. New York: Ungar, 1977.
Mayo, C. Kurt Vonnegut : The Gospel from Outer Space : (or, Yes We
Have No Nirvanas). San Bernadino, California: Borgo Press, 1977.
Merrill, R., ed. Critical Essays on Kurt Vonnegut. Boston: G.K. Hall &
Co, 1990.
Reed, P.J. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Co, 1972.
———. The Short Fiction of Kurt Vonnegut. Westport, Conn.:
Greenwood Press, 1997.
———. Kurt Vonnegut’s Fantastic Faces. Journal of the Fantastic in
the Arts 10, 1999.
Reed, P. J. and M. Leeds, eds. The Vonnegut Chronicles: Interviews
and Essays. Contributions to the Study of World Literature.
Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1996.
Sale, Roger. “Kurt Vonnegut: writing with interchangeable parts.”
New York Times. October 3, 1976.
135
Sayers, Valerie. “Vonnegut Stew.” New York Times. September 28,
1997.
Schatt, S. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1976.
Scholes, Robert. “Slapstick.” Letter to the Editor. New York Times.
November 21, 1976.
Seed, D. Mankind Vs. Machines: The Technological Dystopia in
Vonnegut’s Player Piano. Impossibility Fiction: Alternativity,
Extrapolation, Speculation. D. Littlewood and P. Stockwell.
Amsterdam ; Atlanta, GA: Rodopi. 17: 211, 1996.
Short, R. Something to Believe In: Is Kurt Vonnegut the Exorcist or Jesus
Christ Superstar? San Francisco: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1978.
Streitfeld, David. “Vonnegut, From Cradle To Grave; The Writer and
Failed Suicide, On the Fate of Survival. The Washington Post.
August 29, 1991: c. 01.
Tanner, T. “The Uncertain Messenger: A Study of the Novels of Kurt
Vonnegut,” Jr. Critical Quarterly 11: 297–315, 1969.
Vonnegut, Kurt. “Speaking of Books: Science Fiction.” New York
Times. September 5, 1965.
———. New York Times. October 6, 1985.
———. Letter to the Editor. New York Times. March 27, 1991.
———. “Something’s Rotten.” New York Times. April 11, 1991.
———. “Venture for Vonnegut: Visual Art Novelist, 73, got his start
on vodka ad Article 1 of 2 found.” Denver Post. September 14,
1996.
Whitlark, J. Vonnegut’s Anthropolog y Thesis. Literature and
Anthropology. P. Dennis and W. Aycock. Lubbock: Texas Tech
University Press, 1989.
Wright, Robert A. “Broad Spectrum of Writers Attacks Obscenity
Ruling.” New York Times. August 21, 1973.
Wood, Michael “Vonnegut’s Softer Focus.”. New York Times Review.
September 9, 1979.
136
C H R O N O L O GY
1848 Clemens Vonnegut, Sr., emigrates to America from

Germany.
1913 On November 22, Clemens Vonnegut’s grandson, Kurt
Vonnegut, marries Edith Lieber in Indianapolis.
1922 Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is born on November 11.
1940 Graduates from Shortridge High School, Indianapolis; he
works as a columnist, reporter, and editor for the
Shortridge Daily Echo, one of the first daily student
newspapers in the country; enrolls at Cornell University as
a chemistry major; he writes columns for the Cornell Sun.
1942 Enlists in the Army after his sophomore year.
1944 Granted leave in May to return to Indianapolis to visit his
ailing mother, who commits suicide the day before he
arrives.
1944–1945 Reaches the front in November as a battalion scout with
the 106th infantry; Vonnegut is captured during the
Battle of the Bulge; he works in a vitamin factory in
Dresden, Germany.
1945 Dresden is firebombed by U.S. and British forces on
February 13–14, leaving at least 35,000 inhabitants dead;
Vonnegut survives in an underground meat locker; he is
liberated in April when Soviet troops take Dresden; he
returns to Indianapolis with a Purple Heart; marries Jane
Marie Cox on September 1; in December, Vonnegut
enrolls in the anthropology program at the University of
Chicago.
1946 Works as a police reporter for the Chicago City News
Bureau.
1947 Master’s Thesis, Fluctuations Between Good and Evil in
Simple Tales is unanimously rejected by University of
Chicago; moves to Schenectady, New York, to work for
General Electric in publicity; son Mark is born.
1950 On February 11, Collier’s publishes Vonnegut’s short story,
“Report on the Barnhouse Effect.”
137
1951 Resigns from General Electric to write full-time; he moves
to Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
1952 Player Piano, Vonnegut’s first novel, is published in
paperback by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
1952–1958 Short stories appear frequently in popular magazines.
1954 Player Piano is republished in paperback by Bantam as
Utopia 14; attempts a variety of jobs including teaching
and opening a Saab dealership; daughter Nanette is born.
1957 Collier’s ceases publication; on October 1, Vonnegut’s
father dies.
1958 Vonnegut’s sister Alice dies of cancer the day after her
husband dies in a train crash. Kurt and Jane adopt their
three oldest children (Tiger, Jim, and Steven).
1959 The Sirens of Titan is published in paperback by Dell.
1961 Canary in a Cat House is published in paperback by
Fawcett; The Sirens of Titan is reissued in hardcover.
1962 Mother Night is published in paperback by Fawcett.
1963 Cat’s Cradle is published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston.
1965 God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is published by Holt,
Rinehart and Winston; begins teaching in the Writers
Workshop at the University of Iowa; writes first review for
the New York Times.
1966 Hardcover edition of Mother Night is published, for which
Vonnegut writes a new introduction mentioning his
experiences in Dresden for the first time in print.
1967 Awarded Guggenheim Fellowship; travels to Dresden with
Bernard V. O’Hare, who also survived the firestorm.
1968 Welcome to the Monkey House is published by Delacorte
Press/Seymour Lawrence.
1969 Slaughterhouse-Five is published by Delacorte
Press/Seymour Lawrence; it reaches number one on the
New York Times Best Seller list.
138
1970 Travels to Biafra in January; begins to teach creative
writing at Harvard University; Happy Birthday, Wanda
June runs on and off Broadway for six months.
1971 Awarded an M.A. by the University of Chicago for Cat’s
Cradle; separates from Jane and moves to New York.
1972 On March 13, Between Time and Timbuktu airs on public
television; elected a member of the National Institute of
Arts and Letters and becomes Vice President of P.E.N.
American Center.
1973 Breakfast of Champions is published by Delacorte
Press/Seymour Lawrence; is awarded an LHD by Indiana
University and becomes Distinguished Professor of
English Prose at City University of New York.
1974 Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, a collection of speeches,
essays, and interviews, is published by Delacorte
Press/Seymour Lawrence; is awarded an honorary Litt.D.
by Hobart and William Smith College; resigns position at
City University of New York.
1975 Vice President of the National Institute of Arts and
Letters; Mark Vonnegut’s Eden Express is published.
1976 Slapstick, or Lonesome No More! is published by Delacorte
Press/Seymour Lawrence.
1979 Marries Jill Krementz on November 24, whom he met
first while working on Happy Birthday, Wanda June.
1979 Jailbird is published by Delacorte Press/Seymour
Lawrence.
1980 Writes text for children’s book, Sun Moon Star, from the
illustrations of Ivan Chermayeff.
1981 Palm Sunday: an Autobiographical Collage is published by
Delacorte Press.
1982 Lily Vonnegut is born; Deadeye Dick is published by
Delacorte Press/Seymour Lawrence.
1985 Galápagos is published by Delacorte Press/Seymour
Lawrence; attempts suicide.
139
1987 Bluebeard is published by Delacorte Press.
1990 Hocus Pocus is published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons.
1991 Fates Worse Than Death: An Autobiographical Collage of the
1980’s is published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons.
1997 Brother Bernard Vonnegut dies; Timequake is published
by G.P. Putnam’s Sons.
1999 The film Breakfast of Champions is released; Bagombo
Snuff Box is published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons; God Bless
You, Dr. Kevorkian is published by Seven Stories Press.
2000 Hospitalized for smoke inhalation after a house fire.
2000–2001 Teaches creative writing at Smith College, Northampton,
Mass; named state author for New York.
140
W O R K S BY K U R T V O N N E G U T
Player Piano (1952)

The Sirens of Titan (1959)
Mother Night (1961)
Cat’s Cradle (1963)
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (1965)
Welcome to the Monkey House (1968)
Slaughterhouse-Five (1969)
Happy Birthday, Wanda June: A Play (1971)
Between Time and Timbuktu: Or Prometheus-5, a Space Fantasy
(1972)
Breakfast of Champions (1973)
Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons (1974)
Slapstick (1976)
Jailbird (1979)
Palm Sunday (1981)
Deadeye Dick (1982)
Galapagos (1985)
Bluebeard (1987)
Hocus Pocus (1990)
Fates Worse Than Death (1991)
Timequake (1997)
Bagombo Snuff Box (1999)
God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian (1999)
141
B I B LIOG RAPHY
Abel, David. “So It Goes for Vonnegut at Smith, 78-Year-Old Author

Still Shaking Up the Establishment.” The Boston Globe. May 5,
2001: 1.
Allen, W.R., ed. Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut. Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi, 1988.
———. Understanding Kurt Vonnegut. Columbia, South Carolina:
University of South Carolina Press, 1991.
Anderson, Lisa. “Vonnegut’s vision ‘I had such high hopes for the
planet … after everyone had sacrificed so much and behaved so
well’” Chicago Tribune. September 2, 1990: 1.
Bloom. Harold, ed. Kurt Vonnegut. Modern Critical Views.
Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 2000.
———. Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Modern Critical
Interpretations. Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 2001.
———. Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. Modern Critical Interpretations.
Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 2002.
Bly, William. Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Woodbury,
NY: Barron’s Educational Series, 1985.
Boon, Kevin A. Chaos Theory and the Interpretation of Literary Texts:
The Case of Kurt Vonnegut. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen
Press, 1997.
———, ed. At Millennium’s End: New Essays on the Work of Kurt
Vonnegut. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2001.
Broer, L.R. Sanity Plea: Schizophrenia in the Novels of Kurt Vonnegut.
Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1989.
Bryant, J.H. The Open Decision: The Contemporary American Novel
and Its Intellectual Background. New York: Free Press, 1970.
Chernuchin, Michael, ed. Vonnegut Talks! Forest Hills, NY: Pylon
Press, 1977.
Crichton, J. Michael. “Sci-Fi and Vonnegut.” The New Republic.
April 26, 1969: 33–35.
“The Devil’s Work.” New York Times. November 17, 1973.
142
Giannone, R. Vonnegut: A Preface to His Novels. Port Washington:
Kennikat Press, 1977.
Goldsmith, David H. Kurt Vonnegut: Fantasist of Fire and Ice.
Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green University Popular
Press, 1972.
Hassan, Ihab. Liberations. Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University
Press 1971.
Hayman, D., D. Michaelis, et al. “The Art of Fiction LXIV.” The
Paris Review 69: 55–103, 1977.
Hicks, G. “Literary Horizons.” Saturday Review. March 29, 1969:
25.
Hill, Gladwin. “Ten Cities Bombed” New York Times. February 15,
1945.
Klinkowitz, J. and J. Somer, eds. The Vonnegut Statement. New York:
Klinkowitz, J. and D.L. Lawler, eds. Vonnegut in America : An
Introduction to the Life and Work of Kurt Vonnegut. New York:
Klinkowitz, J. Kurt Vonnegut. New York: Methuen & Co, 1982.
———. Vonnegut in Fact: The Public Spokesmanship of Personal
Fiction. Columbia, South Carolina: University of South Carolina
Press, 1998.
———.The Vonnegut Effect. Columbia, South Carolina: University
of South Carolina Press, 2004.
Kramer, Carol. “Kurt’s College Cult Adopts Him as Literary Guru at
48.” Chicago Tribune. November 15, 1970.
Krim, S. “Jailbird Review.” The Village Voice. New York: 81–82,
1979.
Leeds, Marc. The Vonnegut Encyclopedia: An Authorized Compendium.
Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group, 1995.
Leeds, Marc and Peter J. Reed. Kurt Vonnegut: Images and
Representations. Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing
Group, 2000.
143
Lehmann-Haupt, Christopher. Slaughterhouse-Five. New York Times
book review. March 31, 1969.
Leonard, J. “Black Magic.” The Nation. 251: 421–425, 1990.
Levin, Martin “Do Human Beings Matter?: God Bless You, Mr.
Rosewater. Or Pearls Before Swine.” New York Times April 25,
1965.
Lundquist, J. Kurt Vonnegut. New York: Ungar, 1977.
Marvin, Thomas F. Kurt Vonnegut: A Critical Companion. Westport,
CT: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2002.
Mayo, C. Kurt Vonnegut : The Gospel from Outer Space : (or, Yes We
Have No Nirvanas). San Bernadino, California: Borgo Press, 1977.
Merrill, R., ed. Critical Essays on Kurt Vonnegut. Boston: G.K. Hall &
Co, 1990.
Morse, Donald E. Novels of Kurt Vonnegut: Imagining Being an
American. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 2003.
Mustazza, Leonard. Forever Pursuing Genesis: The Myth of Eden in the
Novels of Kurt Vonnegut. Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University
Press, 1990.
Rackstraw, Loree, ed. Draftings in Vonnegut: The Paradox of Hope.
Cedar Falls, IA: University of Northern Iowa Press, 1988.
Reed, P.J. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Co, 1972.
———. The Short Fiction of Kurt Vonnegut. Westport, Conn.:
Greenwood Press, 1997.
———. Kurt Vonnegut’s Fantastic Faces. Journal of the Fantastic in
the Arts 10, 1999.
Reed, P.J. and M. Leeds, eds. The Vonnegut Chronicles: Interviews and
Essays. Contributions to the Study of World Literature. Westport,
Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1996.
Sale, Roger. “Kurt Vonnegut: writing with interchangeable parts.”
New York Times. October 3, 1976.
Sayers, Valerie. “Vonnegut Stew.” New York Times. September 28,
1997.
144
Schatt, S. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1976.
Scholes, Robert. “Slapstick.” Letter to the Editor. New York Times.
November 21, 1976.
Seed, D. Mankind Vs. Machines: The Technological Dystopia in
Vonnegut’s Player Piano. Impossibility Fiction: Alternativity,
Extrapolation, Speculation. D. Littlewood and P. Stockwell.
Amsterdam ; Atlanta, GA: Rodopi. 17: 211, 1996.
Short, R. Something to Believe In: Is Kurt Vonnegut the Exorcist or Jesus
Christ Superstar? San Francisco: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1978.
Streitfeld, David. “Vonnegut, From Cradle To Grave; The Writer and
Failed Suicide, On the Fate of Survival. The Washington Post.
August 29, 1991: c. 01.
Tanner, T. The Uncertain Messenger: A Study of the Novels of Kurt
Vonnegut, Jr. Critical Quarterly 11:297–315, 1969.
Vonnegut, Kurt. “Speaking of Books: Science Fiction.” New York
Times. September 5, 1965.
———. New York Times. October 6, 1985.
———. Letter to the Editor. New York Times. March 27, 1991.
———. “Something’s Rotten.” New York Times. April 11, 1991.
———.“Venture for Vonnegut: Visual art novelist, 73, got his start
on vodka ad Article 1 of 2 found.” Denver Post. September 14,
1996.
Vonnegut, Mark. Eden Express. New York: Praeger Publishers, Inc.,
1975
Whitlark, J. Vonnegut’s Anthropolog y Thesis. Literature and
Anthropology. P. Dennis and W. Aycock. Lubbock: Texas Tech
University Press, 1989.
Wright, Robert A. “Broad Spectrum of Writers Attacks Obscenity
Ruling.” New York Times. August 21, 1973.
Wood, Michael. “Vonnegut’s Softer Focus.” New York Times Review.
September 9, 1979.
Yarmolinsky, Jane Vonnegut. Angles Without Wings: A Courageous
Family’s Triumph over Tragedy. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987.
145
INDEX
1984 (Orwell), 30 summary of, 99–104

Brave New World (Huxley), 30
Absurdity, in fiction, 1, 64, 94, Breakfast of Champions, 84–85, 99,
127–28 130–31, 133
Allen, W.R., 98 American culture in, 74–77
Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut, film production of, 140
7–8, 22, 24–25, 29, 56, 64, Dwayne Hoover in, 74–75, 93
72–73, 76, 82, 85, 93, 97, 102, hyperbole in, 76, 78
125–26, 130 Francine Pefko in, 74
Understanding Kurt Vonnegut, 30, publication of, 139, 141
32, 34–35, 46, 57, 66, 84, 86, reviews of, 76–77, 88
92–93 Eliot Rosewater in, 74
American culture theme, 7, 39 suicide and depression in, 73, 93
in Bluebeard, 100 summary of, 73–78
in Breakfast of Champions, 74–77 Kilgore Trout in, 74–75, 95
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, writing of, 72–73
51 Broer, Lawrence
in Hocus Pocus, 106–10 Sanity Plea: Schizophrenia in the
in Jailbird, 84–87, 125 Novels of Kurt Vonnegut, 126
Artistic sacrifice theme, 31 Bryant, Jerry, 121
in Mother Night, 21, 36–37 Burger, Knox, 23
Bagombo Snuff Box, 118, 140–41 Canary in a Cat House, 38, 138
Battle of the Bulge, 13, 55, 59, 137 Cat’s Cradle, 18, 52–53, 71–72, 78,
Between Time and Timbuktu: Or 88, 122
Prometheus-5, a Space Fantasy, Mona Aamons in, 40, 45, 47
72, 139, 141 atheism in, 17
Stony Stevenson in, 71 Bokononism, 17, 34, 39–40,
Bloom, Harold, 126 43–46, 83
Bluebeard, 91, 108 futility of existence in, 3, 47
art and war in, 100–4 Felix Hoenikker in, 41–42, 45,
Circe Berman in, 99–100, 103 130
double agent theme in, 103 Franklin Hoenikker in, 45
family theme in, 103 Newt Hoenikker in, 41
Dan Gregory in, 51, 101, 103 John/ Jonah in, 40–41, 43,
Rabo Karebekian in, 99–103, 45–47, 76
111, 127, 129 Lionel Boyd Johnson, 42–44
Marilee Kemp in, 101, 103 Earl McCabe in, 42, 44
Lucrezia in, 101 Papa Monzano in, 45
“Now It’s the Women’s Turn” in, narrative style of, 37, 39–41, 64
100–2 publication of, 138, 141
publication of, 140–41 summary of, 39–47
social issues in, 100 Characters, as author’s mouthpiece
suicide theme in, 103 in Bluebeard, 51, 108
146
in Breakfast of Champions, 75–76 Double agent theme
in Galápagos, 98 in Bluebeard, 103
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, in Hocus Pocus, 108
50 in Mother Night, 29, 36
in Player Piano, 28, 40 in Player Piano, 29
in The Sirens of Titan, 51 Dresden, 53
in Slaughterhouse-Five, 50 firestorm at, 14–15, 55, 60, 64,
Characters, historical 128–29, 137–38
in Cat’s Cradle, 41 in Slaughterhouse-Five, 15, 37,
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, 54–64, 68
51 Vonnegut as POW in, 12–15, 22,
in The Sirens of Titan, 33, 84 37, 55–56, 64, 68, 137–38
Characters, providing outside
commentary
in Player Piano, 28 Family, importance of, theme, 6–7,
Chermayeff, Ivan, 89, 139 81–83, 103, 126–27
Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut Fates Worse Than Death, 11–12, 20,
(Allen) 42, 89–90, 102, 112–13
quotes from, 7–8, 22, 24–25, 29, publication of, 140–41
56, 64, 72–73, 76, 82, 85, 93, suicide and depression in, 9,
97, 102, 125–26, 130 95–96, 127
Cowart, David, 132
Galápagos, 91, 103
Darwin, Charles, 96–98, 108, 111 Darwin theories in, 96–98, 108,
Deadeye Dick, 96 111
autobiographical clues in, 91, 93 idiosyncrasies in, 98–99
creation of stories for self in, pessimism of, 99
94–95 publication of, 138, 141
guilt-ridden narrator, 91–92, 129 reviews of, 98–99
gun-control in, 93–94 science theme in, 96–99
Dwayne Hoover in, 93 structure of, 98
Eloise Metzger in, 94–95 summary of, 96–99
George Metzger in, 94–95 “And the Thing Became,” 98
publication of, 89–91, 138, 141 “The Thing Was,” 98
review of, 91–92, 95–96 Kilgore Trout in, 98
setting of, 93 Leon Trotsky Trout in, 98–99,
suicide in, 93–94, 96 111
summary of, 90–96 General Electric, 19, 22–23, 25, 35,
Felix Waltz in, 94 41, 108, 125, 130, 137–38
Otto Waltz in, 92–94, 129 Geneva Convention, 13
Rudy Waltz in, 92–95, 103, 111, Giannone, Richard, 31, 46, 50,
129 76–77, 83
Destruction of Dresden, The (Irving), God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian, 118,
15, 23 140–41
147
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, 71, 78 in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, 3,
Amanita Buntline in, 49 49–50
loss of dignity in, 3 in Hocus Pocus, 106
mechanization of society in, 48, in Player Piano, 3
85 in The Sirens of Titan, 3, 34
Norman Mushari in, 47–48, 50 in Slaughterhouse Five, 3, 18–19
political climate in, 51 Humanity’s relationship
publication of, 138, 141 with economics and mental well-
Caroline Rosewater in, 49 being theme, 9
Eliot Rosewater in, 47–48, with technology theme, 3–4, 22,
49–53, 83, 94, 127 24–27, 30, 32, 34, 48, 85,
Fred Rosewater in, 48–50, 52 122–23
science fiction in, 48, 122 Humor, in fiction, 1–3, 7–8, 11, 28,
suicide in, 49 37, 39–40, 80, 107, 115
summary of, 47–53 Huxley, Aldous
Kilgore Trout in, 50–53 Brave New World, 30
Gould, Stephen J., 97
Great Depression, 125 “If God Were Alive Today,” 117–18,
effects on Vonnegut, 4, 6, 8–10, 133
21, 49 Irony, in fiction, 1–2
Irving, David
Happy Birthday, Wanda June, 32, The Destruction of Dresden, 15, 23
69–71, 93, 138, 141
movie production of, 72, 84 Jailbird, 91–92, 95–96, 133
“Harrison Bergeron,” 71 Mrs. Jack Graham in, 87
Hicks, Granville, 122–23 Powers Hapgood in, 86–87
Hocus Pocus, 68 index of, 88
American culture in, 106–10 inspiration for, 86
double-agent theme, 108 Emil Larkin in, 87
Eugene Debs Hartke in, 67, 85, Mary Kathleen O’Looney in, 84,
106–12 87
humor in, 107 publication of, 139, 141
pessimism in, 106 religion in, 87
publication of, 106, 112, 140–41 reviews of, 88–89
review of, 107–8 social realism of, 84–87, 125
summary of, 105–12 Walter Stankiewicz in, 84
Vietnam in, 106–11 Walter Starbuck in, 86–87, 103,
war theme in, 106–11 111
“How to Get a Job Like Mine,” 91 summary of, 84–89
Human condition, pessimistic
theme, 121 Klinkowitz, Jerome, 124
in Cat’s Cradle, 3, 47 Vonnegut in Fact, 72, 74, 91,
in Deadeye Dick, 94–95 107–8, 112, 122–23
in Galápagos, 99
148
Langmuir, Irving, 41, 130 O’Hare, Bernard V., 57, 63, 138
Lawrence, Sam, 55, 133 O’Hare, Mary, 57–58
Leeds, Marc, 71 Orwell, George
Lehmann-Haupt, Christopher, 64, 1984, 30
95
Levin, Martin, 53 Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical
Life experience, in fiction, 2, 5–7, Collage, 17–18, 21–22, 77, 89,
9–12, 29 92
in Deadeye Dick, 91–96 “Embarrassment” in, 92
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, family history in, 5, 69–71
47 publication of, 139, 141
in Mother Night, 37 Pessimism, in fiction, 2, 10, 34, 39,
in Slaughterhouse-Five, 25, 54–68 43, 47, 49, 83, 99, 106, 125
in Timequake, 25 Petro, Joe III, 112
Littauer, Kenneth, 23–24 Player Piano, 32, 46, 71, 83, 89,
Loneliness theme 111, 116
in Slapstick, 3 double agent theme in, 29
Lundquist, James, 131 Edward Finnerty in, 27–30
Dr. Frances Gelhorne in, 28–29
Mayo, Clark, 49 Ghost Shirt Society, 28, 34
Melville, Herman (Moby Dick), 45 Kroner in, 28–29
Moby Dick (Melville), 45 James Lasher in, 28–30
Mother Night, 13, 38, 46, 57, 84, mechanization of society in, 3,
107, 128–29 25–27, 30, 32, 48, 122
artistic sacrifice in, 21, 36–37 Anita Proteus in, 27
Howard W. Campbell, Jr. in, Paul Proteus in, 26–30, 94, 103
35–37, 50, 96, 103 publication, 137, 141
double-agent theme in, 29, 36 satire of, 39
first-person narrative, 35 science fiction in, 25–27, 29–30,
humor in, 37 122
publication of, 138, 141 Shah in, 28
suicide in, 37 summary of, 25–31
summary of, 35–37 Kilgore Trout in, 28
World War II in, 35, 37 war theme in, 26–27
Pollock, Jackson, 102
Narrative style, 3–4, 24–25, 96–97, Prescott, Peter, 78
132
of Cat’s Cradle, 37, 39–41, 64 Rackstraw, Loree, 95
of Deadeye Dick, 91–92, 129 Reasoner, Harry, 125
of Mother Night, 35 Redfield, Robert, 16, 127
of “Report on the Barnhouse Reed, Peter, 52–53, 57, 66, 90–91,
Effect,” 35 118, 121
of Slaughterhouse-Five, 57 The Short Fiction of Kurt
of Timequake, 118 Vonnegut, 25
149
Reilly, Charles, 89 Beatrice Rumfoord in, 32
Religious themes, 67 Winston Niles Rumfoord in,
in Cat’s Cradle, 17, 34, 39–40, 32–33, 51, 62, 83–84, 128
43–46, 83 science fiction in, 34, 39
in Jailbird, 87 summary of, 31–35
in The Sirens of Titan, 34, 39 Slapstick, or Lonesome No More!, 16,
in Slapstick, 34, 39 96, 104, 126, 133
in Slaughterhouse-Five, 67 family in, 81–82
“Report on the Barnhouse Effect,” humor in, 80
23, 137 inspiration for, 80–83
Arthur Barnhouse in, 24–25 loneliness theme in, 3
biographical elements in, 24–25 publication of, 78, 138, 141
narrative style of, 35 religious theme in, 34, 39
style on, 25 reviews of, 78–80, 83, 88, 98
summary of, 24 science fiction theme in, 79
summary of, 80–84
Sales, Roger, 78–79, 98 Eliza Swain in, 80
Sanity Plea: Schizophrenia in the Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain in,
Novels of Kurt Vonnegut (Broer), 80–81, 83
126 Slaughterhouse-Five, 52, 69, 72–73,
Sayers, Valerie, 117 91, 98, 126, 129–30
Scholes, Robert, 79 apathy in, 18–19
Science fiction theme, 11, 23–24, banning of, 2, 67, 77, 122
84, 121 Howard W. Campbell in, 60
in Breakfast of Champions, 74 ‘the children’s crusade,’ 58–59
in Cat’s Cradle, 41–42, 47, 122 chronology structure of, 61–65
in Galápagos, 96–99 construct in, 33
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Dresden source for, 15, 23, 37,
48, 122 54–64, 68
in Player Piano, 25–27, 29–30, ‘duty-dance with death,’ 59
122 futility of existence in, 3
in The Sirens of Titan, 34, 39 Paul Lazzaro in, 59, 61, 66
in Slapstick, 79 life experience in, 25, 54–68
in Timequake, 113–15 narrative of, 57
Short Fiction of Kurt Vonnegut, The Billy Pilgrim in, 58–63, 65–66
(Reed), 25 publication of, 12–13, 20, 63,
Short, Robert, 85 138, 141
Sirens of Titan, The, 30, 34, 46, 71, religions in, 67
80, 96 Eliot Rosewater in, 60
action in, 33 success of, 2, 39, 78, 84–85, 120
Malachi Constant in, 32–34, 94 summary of, 58–67
futility of existence in, 3, 34 Tralfamadore in, 60–63, 65
publication of, 138, 141 Kilgore Trout in, 60, 65
religion in, 34, 39 war theme in, 37, 58–60, 103
150
Roland Weary in, 59 death, 31, 80, 83, 138
Montana Wildhack in, 60 Vonnegut, Bernard (brother), 6,
writing of, 54–59, 112–13 10–11, 19, 25, 47, 80, 118
Standish, David, 64 death, 140
Streitfeld, David, 96, 124–25 Vonnegut, Clemens (great-
Suicide and depression theme, 3, 10, grandfather), 137
37, 126 Instruction in Morals, 5
in Bluebeard, 103 Vonnegut, Edith (daughter), 19,
in Breakfast of Champions, 73, 93 138
in Deadeye Dick, 93–94, 96 Vonnegut, Edith Lieber (mother), 4,
in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, 47, 118
49 influence on Vonnegut, 6, 23
in Fates Worse Than Death,9, suicide of, 9, 37, 49, 71, 96, 126,
95–96, 127 137
in Mother Night, 37 Vonnegut, Jane Cox (wife), 16, 70,
Sun Moon Star, 89 81, 137, 139
Swift, Jonathan, 4, 8, 121–22 Vonnegut, Jill Krementz (wife), 84,
91, 139
Tanner, Tony, 33, 79 Vonnegut, Kurt, Jr.
“Thanosphere,” 25 birth, 4, 137
Timequake, 95, 128, 132–33 censorship of, 2–3, 67, 77
community in, 116 childhood, 4–10
humor in, 115 chronology, 137–40
life experience in, 25 criticism of, 24, 26, 29, 31, 33,
narrative of, 118 46–47, 50, 52–53, 64–68,
Dudley Prince in, 114 76–80, 83, 88–89, 91–96,
publication of, 140–41 98–99, 107–8, 117, 119–33
reviews of, 117 and depression, 10, 71, 73, 93,
science fiction in, 113–15 96, 126, 139
summary of, 113–19 education, 6, 8–10, 16–17, 47,
Kilgore Trout in, 113–15, 118 71–72, 137, 139
Xanadu in, 117–18 and humor, 1–3, 7–8, 11, 28, 37,
Todd, Richard, 31 39–40, 80, 107, 115, 121–22
Twain, Mark, 4, 8, 122–23 influences on, 6, 16, 23, 122
lectures, 17, 20, 91, 105, 112,
Understanding Kurt Vonnegut (Allen) 123–24
quotes from, 30, 32, 34–35, 46, military experiences, 11–15,
57, 66, 84, 86, 92–93 54–68, 137
Updike, John, 79–80 pacifism, 2, 11, 12, 54
pessimistic outlook of, 2–3, 10,
Vietnam, 2, 64, 98, 106–11 34, 39, 43, 47, 49, 78, 83, 99,
Voltaire, 8, 121 106, 125–26
Vonnegut, Alice (sister), 6, 47, 112, and religion, 2, 5, 10, 17, 21, 39,
118 67, 70, 97, 122, 127
151
satire of, 2, 8, 29, 39–40, 77, Wakefield, Dan
121–22 Vonnegut Statement, The, 55, 121
simplicity of, 3–4, 24, 34–35, 37, Wampeters, Foma, & Granfalloons,
78, 120 16, 81, 84, 89, 112, 123–24,
Vonnegut, Kurt, Sr. (father), 4, 127, 139, 141
47–48, 92, 112, 118, 137 War theme, 126
death, 31, 138 in Bluebeard, 100–4
withdrawal of, 7–9, 11, 49 in Hocus Pocus, 106–11
Vonnegut, Lily (daughter), 91, 139 in Player Piano, 26–27
Vonnegut, Mark (son), 19, 73, 126, in Slaughter-Five, 37, 58–60, 103
Welcome to the Monkey House, 23,
132, 137
138, 141
Eden Express, 94, 139
Wilkinson, Max, 23
Vonnegut, Nanette (daughter), 138
Wood, Michael, 88
Vonnegut in Fact (Klinkowitz), 72, World War I, 7, 123
74, 91, 107–8, 112, 122–23 World War II, 9, 22–23, 26, 102–3,
Vonnegut Statement, The 125
(Wakefield), 55, 121 in fiction, 35, 37, 58, 129
152
CONTR I B UTOR S
JOHN TOMEDI earned his B.A. in English from the Pennsylvania State
University. He is a freelance writer and researcher living in Howard,
Pennsylvania.
PETER J. REED is Professor Emeritus at the University of Minnesota and

one of the foremost Vonnegut scholars in the academic world. His books
include Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., The Short Fiction of Kurt Vonnegut, The
Vonnegut Chronicles (with Marc Leeds), and Kurt Vonnegut: Images
and Representations (with Marc Leeds).
153

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G R E AT W R I T E R S KURT VONNEGUT

Foreword by Peter J. Reed

VP, NEW PRODUCT DEVELOPMENT Sally Cheney

Staff for KURT VONNEGUT

EXECUTIVE EDITOR: Matt Uhler

©2004 by Chelsea House Publishers,

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

WORKS CITED 134

I have become an enthusiast of the printed word

IN CHAPTER 5 OF THIS Critical biography, John Tomedi quotes

Tomedi several times makes mention of Vonnegut’s being an

balances his account by citing both press reviewers and academics

mounts, reaching into its contemporary audience’s pain at the

So in the midst of his description of the worst human tragedy he

kind of humor that implies compassion and warmth, as we see in

I’m no brighter or better educated than anyone else,

HOW A HAPLESS JOKESTER like Kurt Vonnegut rose to become

one that paired ever-present humor with grim, pessimistic

and words gained an almost religious reverence in the eyes of his

His willingness to question humanity’s relationship to time and

family. His work, “An Account of the Ancestry of Kurt Vonnegut,

Even though he had not known about his great-grandfather’s

God. “How proud I became of our belief, how pigheadedly proud,

Whenever I go to Indianapolis, the same question asks itself over

proliferation of television, to name just a few—in the absence of

I got to be a joke-maker as the youngest member of my family. My

To these radio comedians—and comedians in general—Vonnegut

The Depression did break people’s spirits. And the comedians

By the standards of the Depression, the Vonneguts were still

Vonnegut recalled. (Fates Worse Than Death 22) During World

Edith Vonnegut became depressed, sleepless, and eventually

fiction, and characters who face suicide are ubiquitous. There is

Vonnegut’s switch to an Indiana public school—Shortridge

Father suggested that I become a scientist. My father himself was

Vonnegut’s older brother Bernard had studied chemistry at MIT,

and had a very successful career ahead of him, a career choice

during my subsequent three years as a full-time soldier, ensuring

That Vonnegut can look back derisively at his military experiences,

engineering. He was then sent to Europe as a battalion scout for

The 106th reached the European theatre in November of 1944,

For what he believes to have been 11 days, he wandered around as

Captured, he was taken to a prison camp for a time, then sent to

Waves and waves of planes come over carrying high explosives

This happened the night of February 13–14, 1945. The New

Dresden was hit three times within fifteen hours—twice by the

The Germans reported the city as “a heap of ruins” by February

night of March 4, 1945, that the city of Dresden no longer

After the general surrender in May 1945, his German guards

When I got back from my war, my uncle Dan clapped me on the

He married Jane Cox, his high school sweetheart on September

The happiest day of my life, so far, was in October of 1945. I had

Vonnegut’s study of social anthropology put him in contact with

Of course, now cultural relativity is fashionable—and that

For all he learned and loved in the Anthropology Department at

which he notes is one of our culture’s most enduring stories—“at

Contrary to Vonnegut’s own situation, Vonnegut’s older brother

From General Electric

IN 1979, TEN YEARS AFTER the publication of Slaughterhouse-

The people who play with such chemicals are so dumb!