I enjoy reading Kurt Vonnegut, and if I had it to do over I would read this, his final book, only after I had read all the rest (which I have yet to do). The man has a talent for interesting humor into the most horrific of things, a talent he accounts for early on in this memoir of sorts, but this book ultimately reads like the final disgruntled rant of a disillusioned old man. Which, incidentally, it is, and he openly acknowledges it as such. It is Kurt Vonnegut, and that was the point of most of his work, but the difference here is the saturation of bitterness because it isn't embedded in a well written story. Reading this there were many moments when I found myself laughing outright, others when I was nodding my head vigorously in agreement, and still others when I succumbed to frustration with the constant negativity. He repeats ideas, even phrases, throughout the book and there were times when I wanted to say enough already. It comes across as just bitterness, and that's a wasted emotion in my book. But every time I was about to set the book aside intending to never pick it up again, he would renew my interest with another fabulous observation or statement that got me hooked back in.
For many, especially the true fans, the people who grew up on Vonnegut's acerbic wit, this will be an enjoyable must read. And people who are one-hundred percent in line with his political views will enjoy it even more. I fall into neither of those categories, but I would still give it a three out of five.
15 down on my way to 52 in 2011
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