I picked up this book because I have read Slaughterhouse n.5 in the past and loved it deeply. This one is a different kind of wild ride. The only reason I did not devour it in one sitting is because of the stiff competition it faced from Moby Dick. It is the intentionally preposterous story of two deformed twins named Wilbur and Eliza, told from the perspective of Wilbur. They are both average in intellect when separate, but become a once-in-a-century genius when their minds are in close proximity. Or so Vonnegut tells us in all seriousness, and he is making fun of us readers, because the ideas the twins concoct are always nothing short of insane. The chief one, which they regard as an achievement on par with Newton's mechanics: creating artificial extended families by giving every citizen a government-issued middle name; people with the same middle name are now related. Wilbur even becomes president of the United States running on this platform. Monumental things happen in the world during the narrator's lifetime, set in an implied present: the chinese find a way to permanently shrink themselves so they can multiply tenfold in number; gravity suddenly decides to become variable, making you lighter one day and crushing you under your own weight the next; the United States disintegrate into warring factions ruled by warlords such as The King of Michigan. The brief chapters dump all this on you in rapid succession and you should just accept it and let the book take you on this manic carousel ride.
It would be wrong to conclude from the above that this is just a work of absurdist literature. Through these inane characters Vonnegut talks about a great many things that affect your life: the tragedy of loss, first and foremost, which inspired the whole book as he kindly tells us in the autobiographic prologue. I really liked the prologue - the first three excerpts below are taken from there alone. It goes without saying that it talks about loneliness as well, since that's the natural consequence of loss. The bizarre scheme to create artificial families is intended to put an end to loneliness - the campaign slogan is "Lonesone no more!", which is almost charming and certainly better than things like "Hope" or "Make America Great Again". Every other page delivers some kind of blow, facing you with this and that aspect of the human condition; and yet the farcical nature of the tale makes you laugh in the next one. These laughs however don't feel like the ones you have at a comedy show; they feel rather like the ones you have at a funeral, when someone shares a funny anecdote about the deceased. They are the classical laughs of a certain type of satire, the one that makes you take a hard look at your sorry self. Indeed, the book is full of satire and Vonnegut does not take prisoners: he makes fun of parents, psychologists, lawyers, voters, institutions, etc; and of the reader as well, who is asked to bear with these tall tales yet a while longer.
If you are into the things I described, you should really read it if you come across it. It's only 170 pages and as I said the chapters are very short, 2-3 pages each typically.
Yes, and Indianapolis, which had once had a way of speaking English all its own, and jokes and legends and poets and villains and heroes all its own, and galleries for its own artists, had itself become an interchangeable part in the American machine.
It was just another someplace where automobiles lived, with a symphony orchestra and all. And a race track.
The goat farmer, [...], said this about it to me, tapping his forehead with his fingertips: 'It isn't the museum it should be.'
Any creation which has any wholesomeness and harmoniousness, I suspect, was made by an artist or inventor with an audience of one in mind.
What is happiness?
In Eliza's and my case, happiness was being perpetually in each other's company, [...]
But now the bogus bellhop, [...] fired a magnesium flare into the air.
Everything touched by that unnatural dazzle became statuary - lifeless and exemplary, and weighing tons.
He was somehow like a summer squash on the vine - featureless and watery, and merely growing larger all the time.