"God is unknowable, but Nature is explaining herself all the time."
A veritable kaleidoscope of Kurt Vonnegut! The introduction humbly begins: "this is a very great book about an American genius." Well, then. Can't say I disagree, however. And boy, how, do we need us some KV in the present situation, as I write this review after spending the better part of ten weeks under coronavirus lockdown. Somehow, despite the ensuing tragedy, I think Kurt would find all this funny. Strangely, I find that heartening. Who was it who said that life is a comedy to those who think and a tragedy to those who feel? Kinda like that. In fact, that was perhaps the most enviable aspect of KV's great genius: the ability to find humor in the face of indescribable tragedy. His experiences during the war taught him that. This is the last KV novel in my to-read pile, and I've been holding it reserve, lest it be a while before I can lay hold of some more, but, what the hell.
Along the lines of his premier masterpiece (in my opinion), A Man Without A Country (my personal favorite), this collection of KV memorabilia is pure, distilled Vonnegut, replete with KV neologisms: case in point - blivit, an all-out assault on the senses and sensibilities. That doesn't mean that his kaleidoscopic work is self-aggrandizing, however. As one might expect, in fact, KV talks about himself by talking about others, who run the gamut from his ancestors in a recounting of his family's storied genealogy, provided to him by a relative, to his various homages at funerals, whereby he memorialized the deceased with a mix of humor, compassion and poignancy, orations at dedications, commencements, and various organizations. I would dearly love to read a copy of his oration at Isaac Asimov's funeral, where he had them rolling in the aisles.
In any event, the moral of the story here is that our lives are essentially a nonlinear collection of experiences, with multiple foci, with a heavy emphasis on our relationships with others, which, he asserts in true KV fashion, makes life worth living. This is also one of the primary foci of his perhaps oddest novel, Slapstick, which was something of a recounting of his relationship with his sister.
To say that this collection is eclectic would be the supreme understatement. Topics range from family and genealogy, to his views on writing (and writers), literature and his lackluster academic career to his familiar moralizing on war and death. Other topics include "playmates," "embarrassment," "religion" (spoiler alert: Kurt wasn't a fan), "obscenity" (Kurt was a VERY big fan), children, and Jonathan Swift. As this book was written in the 80s, KV isn't as cynical has he would become in the later decades of his life. It seems that he still has hope for humanity, which, by the time of his last couple of novels, he has lost completely, which is disheartening for true fans: if KV doesn't think we can make it, we are truly f***ed.
This book has it all: political, historical, memorial, ethical, and monumental. I think the best way to describe this novel is to let KV speak in his own words. A collection of notable passages appears below, but, by all means, find the ones throughout this poignant and profound book which speak to you personally.
-------------------
Re: the first amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of the press..." and the rest: "How could a nation with such a law raise its children in an atmosphere of decency? It couldn't - it can't So the law will surely be repealed soon for the sake of the children."
One time out in North Dakota, the books were actually burned in a furnace. I had a laugh. It was such an ignorant, dumb, superstitious thing to do. It was so cowardly, too - to make a great show of attacking artifacts. it was like St. George attacking bedspreads and cuckoo clocks.
Here is how I propose to end book banning in this country once and for all. Every candidate for school committee should be hooked up to a lie detector and asked this question: "Have you read a book from start to finish since high school? Or did you even read a book from start to finish in high school?" If the truthful answer is "no," then the candidate should be told politely that he cannot get on the school committee and blow off his big bazoo about how books make children crazy.
The highest law, [Thomas Aquinas] said, was divine law, God's law. Beneath that was natural law, which I suppose would include thunderstorms, and our right to shield our children from poisonous ideas, and so on. And the lowest law was human law. Let me clarify this scheme by comparing its parts to playing cards. Enemies of the Bill of Rights do the same sort of thing all the time, so why shouldn't we? Divine law, then, is an ace. natural law is a king. The Bill of Rights is a lousy Queen. The Thomist hierarchy lf laws is so far from being ridiculous that I have ever met anybody who did not believe it right down to the marrow of his or her bones.
All good things must come to an end, they say. So American freedom will come to an end, too, sooner or later. How will it end? As all freedoms end: by the surrender of our destines to the highest laws.
How sick was the soul revealed by the flash at Hiroshima? And I deny that it was a specifically American soul. It was the soul of every highly industrialized nation on earth, whether at war or at peace. How sick was it? It was so sick that it didn't want to live anymore. What other sort of soul would create a new physics based on nightmares, would place into the hands of mere politicians a planet so "destabilized," to borrow a CIA term, that the briefest fit of stupidity could guarantee the end of the world?
That would certainly be a better name for this planet than Earth, since it would give people who just got here a clearer idea of what they were in for: triage. Welcome to Triage.
Your own winning literary style must begin with interesting ideas in your head. Find a subject you care about and and which you in your heart feel that others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.
[My brother's] most famous discovery is that silver iodide will sometimes make it rain or snow.
Here, in simple English, is what Syd does... 'he meditates. He connects his hand and paintbrush to the deeper, quieter, more mysterious part of his mind - and he paints pictures of what he sees and feels down there.'
Film is a perfect prescription for people who will not or cannot read, and have no imagination. Since they have no imaginations, those people can now be shown actors and scenery instead.
The language is holy to me, which shows how little I know about holiness. Literature is holy to me, which again shows how little I know about holiness. Only freedom to say or write whatever we please in this country is holy to me. It is a rare privilege not only on this planet, but throughout the universe, I suspect. And it is not something somebody gave us. It is a thing we give to ourselves.
The ideal, achieved by few, is this: 'Live so that you can say to God on Judgment Day, "I was a very good person, even though I did not believe in you."'
A veritable kaleidoscope of Kurt Vonnegut! The introduction humbly begins: "this is a very great book about an American genius." Well, then. Can't say I disagree, however. And boy, how, do we need us some KV in the present situation, as I write this review after spending the better part of ten weeks under coronavirus lockdown. Somehow, despite the ensuing tragedy, I think Kurt would find all this funny. Strangely, I find that heartening. Who was it who said that life is a comedy to those who think and a tragedy to those who feel? Kinda like that. In fact, that was perhaps the most enviable aspect of KV's great genius: the ability to find humor in the face of indescribable tragedy. His experiences during the war taught him that. This is the last KV novel in my to-read pile, and I've been holding it reserve, lest it be a while before I can lay hold of some more, but, what the hell.
Along the lines of his premier masterpiece (in my opinion), A Man Without A Country (my personal favorite), this collection of KV memorabilia is pure, distilled Vonnegut, replete with KV neologisms: case in point - blivit, an all-out assault on the senses and sensibilities. That doesn't mean that his kaleidoscopic work is self-aggrandizing, however. As one might expect, in fact, KV talks about himself by talking about others, who run the gamut from his ancestors in a recounting of his family's storied genealogy, provided to him by a relative, to his various homages at funerals, whereby he memorialized the deceased with a mix of humor, compassion and poignancy, orations at dedications, commencements, and various organizations. I would dearly love to read a copy of his oration at Isaac Asimov's funeral, where he had them rolling in the aisles.
In any event, the moral of the story here is that our lives are essentially a nonlinear collection of experiences, with multiple foci, with a heavy emphasis on our relationships with others, which, he asserts in true KV fashion, makes life worth living. This is also one of the primary foci of his perhaps oddest novel, Slapstick, which was something of a recounting of his relationship with his sister.
To say that this collection is eclectic would be the supreme understatement. Topics range from family and genealogy, to his views on writing (and writers), literature and his lackluster academic career to his familiar moralizing on war and death. Other topics include "playmates," "embarrassment," "religion" (spoiler alert: Kurt wasn't a fan), "obscenity" (Kurt was a VERY big fan), children, and Jonathan Swift. As this book was written in the 80s, KV isn't as cynical has he would become in the later decades of his life. It seems that he still has hope for humanity, which, by the time of his last couple of novels, he has lost completely, which is disheartening for true fans: if KV doesn't think we can make it, we are truly f***ed.
This book has it all: political, historical, memorial, ethical, and monumental. I think the best way to describe this novel is to let KV speak in his own words. A collection of notable passages appears below, but, by all means, find the ones throughout this poignant and profound book which speak to you personally.
-------------------
Re: the first amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of the press..." and the rest: "How could a nation with such a law raise its children in an atmosphere of decency? It couldn't - it can't So the law will surely be repealed soon for the sake of the children."
One time out in North Dakota, the books were actually burned in a furnace. I had a laugh. It was such an ignorant, dumb, superstitious thing to do. It was so cowardly, too - to make a great show of attacking artifacts. it was like St. George attacking bedspreads and cuckoo clocks.
Here is how I propose to end book banning in this country once and for all. Every candidate for school committee should be hooked up to a lie detector and asked this question: "Have you read a book from start to finish since high school? Or did you even read a book from start to finish in high school?" If the truthful answer is "no," then the candidate should be told politely that he cannot get on the school committee and blow off his big bazoo about how books make children crazy.
The highest law, [Thomas Aquinas] said, was divine law, God's law. Beneath that was natural law, which I suppose would include thunderstorms, and our right to shield our children from poisonous ideas, and so on. And the lowest law was human law. Let me clarify this scheme by comparing its parts to playing cards. Enemies of the Bill of Rights do the same sort of thing all the time, so why shouldn't we? Divine law, then, is an ace. natural law is a king. The Bill of Rights is a lousy Queen. The Thomist hierarchy lf laws is so far from being ridiculous that I have ever met anybody who did not believe it right down to the marrow of his or her bones.
All good things must come to an end, they say. So American freedom will come to an end, too, sooner or later. How will it end? As all freedoms end: by the surrender of our destines to the highest laws.
How sick was the soul revealed by the flash at Hiroshima? And I deny that it was a specifically American soul. It was the soul of every highly industrialized nation on earth, whether at war or at peace. How sick was it? It was so sick that it didn't want to live anymore. What other sort of soul would create a new physics based on nightmares, would place into the hands of mere politicians a planet so "destabilized," to borrow a CIA term, that the briefest fit of stupidity could guarantee the end of the world?
That would certainly be a better name for this planet than Earth, since it would give people who just got here a clearer idea of what they were in for: triage. Welcome to Triage.
Your own winning literary style must begin with interesting ideas in your head. Find a subject you care about and and which you in your heart feel that others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.
[My brother's] most famous discovery is that silver iodide will sometimes make it rain or snow.
Here, in simple English, is what Syd does... 'he meditates. He connects his hand and paintbrush to the deeper, quieter, more mysterious part of his mind - and he paints pictures of what he sees and feels down there.'
Film is a perfect prescription for people who will not or cannot read, and have no imagination. Since they have no imaginations, those people can now be shown actors and scenery instead.
The language is holy to me, which shows how little I know about holiness. Literature is holy to me, which again shows how little I know about holiness. Only freedom to say or write whatever we please in this country is holy to me. It is a rare privilege not only on this planet, but throughout the universe, I suspect. And it is not something somebody gave us. It is a thing we give to ourselves.
The ideal, achieved by few, is this: 'Live so that you can say to God on Judgment Day, "I was a very good person, even though I did not believe in you."'
