For the first time in at least six years, my backlog is entirely Vonnegut-free. This was a collection of stories he had published in the '50s and '60s in order to finance his true passion of writing novels. There were 25 in total and they varied enormously both in quality and genre. In fact, the entire collection feels like a decent sampling of Vonnegut's career. There were endearing old coots and boorish plain salesmen; there were stories set in outer space, in dystopian futures, and in quiet little towns with nothing going on; there were love stories and sci-fi stories and subtle stories and ridiculous stories. I don't know what else to say!
This wasn't Vonnegut's best work, but upon completing it I can't help but reflect over the last six years of the Back-Blogged. I fell in love with this man's writing with Slaughterhouse-Five, then after a lengthy hiatus I barreled through the rest of his fourteen novels in a matter of two years or so, ignoring a few but enjoying most. This marks the fourth straight summer in which I've tackled a collection of his short stories, and although more collections do exist, I think they hit the point of diminishing returns a little while back. I could always try out some of his essays and editorials. Time will tell.
I guess my main point here is one of personal evolution and change. Six years ago, I was 22 and Kurt Vonnegut was my favorite author, living or dead. And that makes plenty of sense. There's just something so appealing about his work when you compare it to most mandatory reading from high school and college. And yet 18 Vonnegut books later, at 28, I can't help but feel like I've moved "past" that era of my life a little bit. Does that make sense? Is it smug, and vain? I've just read so much else these last six years - stuff that digs a little deeper into the human experience, stuff that evokes a dreamlike state, stuff that comes from the perspective of someone other than a put-upon straight white man - and while I'm glad to have read all that Kurt Vonnegut over the last six years, I don't think I can safely call him my favorite author anymore. (Who is? Couldn't tell you! So absent another option, sure, why not.)
Anyway, this concludes my time with Kurt Vonnegut, at least for the foreseeable future, and as such it sort of concludes a literary era in my own life. So it goes! (Sorry. Had to.)
I've only read four of his books -- mostly the big titles (Slaughterhouse-Five, Cat's Cradle, Sirens of Titan, and Breakfast for Champions) -- but have always had a deep appreciation for Vonnegut. His punchy style, witty humor, and mind-bending narratives. It can't help but get to you. However, I totally agree with you that I feel like he's an author that most resonates to a particular time and place in my life. Mainly that of my early 20's. A time ripe for having my fragile, innocent mind get fucked up in the best way possible from visionaries that clearly see our world through a completely different prism. Don't get me wrong, I'll always hold Slaughterhouse as a true masterpiece, but I can't help but feel my appreciation of him (or Hunter S. Thompson or Hubert Selby Jr. or Tom Wolfe) just seems to fade with time and age.
ReplyDeleteThat said, I haven't come close to finishing off his whole bibliography. In fact, I see Mother Night staring me in the face as I type this. Bought it about three years ago and just let it slip away. Maybe now's the time to see how relevant Vonnegut feels to me.
Mother Night is goddamn excellent, but otherwise you're doing a great job hitting the highlights while avoiding the duds. I was also partial to Deadeye Dick, but I know that's a deeper cut. Galapagos and Bluebeard are also worth looking into. The other six all have their moments, but feel like "completionist" fodder. Scratch that - Player Piano doesn't have any moments at all.
ReplyDelete