Kurt Vonnegut had seen war close up with burning
fleshing in the air and eventually counterbalanced the horror with child-like euphemisms.
An obvious humanitarian, Vonnegut was wary of
humanity. Slaughterhouse House Five,
which he claimed to be his best book, isn’t about World War Two so much as it’s
about the kind of people who participated
in the war and how it affected them. His skill comes in melding the fantastic to
the ordinary—and in that way explains how easily evil may overcome good, and
vice-versa.
Like Hemingway, his sentences are deceptively simple. With Vonnegut, you’re misled by the often sophomoric humor, glib insights or near-cartoon characters. Then, later, the full force of the message hits you and that rare and precious reader-writer connection clicks in.
Initially embraced by the 1960s counter-culture, Vonnegut aged without
relinquishing his Mark Twain follicles and cigarettes, his mustache sagging
under the weight of worries—that humans might not make it over the fence; that
people are too smart in the wrong way.
There is a Zen quality to his writing, as if he’s seeking the tranquility
to be found in the acceptance that no one, ever, has really understood life.
---
“Why me?"
“That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you?
Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you
ever seen bugs trapped in amber?"
"Yes."
- Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this
moment. There is no why.”
- Slaughterhouse
Five