So It Goes.

I believe the first time I read this book was about two or three summers ago; my goal of that particular summer had been to read some "classic" (read: serious) literature. I knew nothing about it more than its name and that one of my counselors from camp had read a book by the same author. I checked it out from the library and got right to work.

At first, it met my expectations perfectly. War, firebombings, veterans growing old- this is the stuff of the serious and stuffy novels which I had set out to read. Once the Tralfamadorians arrived, however, my preconceived notion of the book went right out the window, and landed plop on the sidewalk outside. But therein lies the problem. My preconceived notion didn't go right out the window. It lingered, causing my brain to be intensely puzzled at every passing chapter. Slaughterhouse Five was supposed to be a serious book, serious but good. While it was well-written, it was only serious in some parts, the other parts somberly comical. Better said: it gave the illusion of being serious all the way through. But how serious can one be about aliens and being "unstuck in time"? I finished the book, of course, but was left with a very strange impression, and one that I wanted to refine with a rereading. However, as I am apt to do, I got busy and had no time to do so.

Fast forward a couple of years to about a month or two before today. I am browsing audiobooks because I am preparing to drive up and surprise visit my friend in Pennsylvania. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? But Slaughterhouse Five, sans tiny reindeer. So I bought it, reminding myself that it's not as serious as I thought it was, reminding myself to clear my mind before starting. 

Of course the man reading the audiobook has a beautiful voice, and I speed through it, between the drive to PA and back and the train ride to and from Philly. Quite possibly the coolest part of the listening experience: afterwards, there was an interview with Kurt Vonnegut himself, followed by a short audio clip of him reading the beginning of the novel. Anyone can read another persons work and sound good, but there is nothing quite like the author reading it as he intended it to sound. 

Onward and upward, to the actual content of the book (no spoilers, I promise). To begin with, it was quite thought-provoking. Not only did it portray a face of war that usually isn't portrayed, but it also juxtaposed that next to a culture that didn't view death as a bad/sad/constant thing. Both elements were interesting alone, but took on a different meaning when paired.

What face of war isn't usually portrayed, you ask? The face of the unheroic hero. The soldier who hopes he dies, who doesn't want to be in the war in the first place, who looks ridiculous and not at all "like Frank Sinatra or John Wayne". The soldier who marches in combat boots painted silver, and only continues to survive for two reasons: through random fortunate circumstances, and because he is the main character.

All I will say of the Tralfamadorian view of death is to quote the book. (From chapter 2, so if it spoils anything, it won't spoil much.

The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist.They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever.
When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "So it goes." The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance.

It's such a strange view on death, and one that is difficult to adapt your mind to, difficult to start using. I've tried, and it works sometimes, although I haven't really had deaths that are world-shattering to apply it to. But it's a different view than what we are always taught about death. It's not a bad thing; it simply is. So it goes.

Poo-tee-weet.

May the Ford be with you.

(spoilers to follow, consider yourself warned)

Imagine yourself in a world where a caste system is genetically imposed, it is not at all uncommon for you to have a whole slew of people with the exact same face as you, you're allowed and encouraged to be promiscuous (with protection, of course), the movies stimulate all five of your senses, in addition to evoking other feelings, and there are tablets that give you all the happy lovely feelings of being drunk without all the unhappy anti-societal side effects.

Sounds perfect, right? Who wouldn't want to live there?

You would, if you hadn't been born there. Like John ("the Savage"), you would be surprised and likely repulsed by the fact that the word "mother" is equivalent to the worst swear word, that it is as if Shakespeare, the Bible (and thus, Jesus and God), art , and history never existed. There are no comedies or tragedies, because there is no longing, marriage, lust (except for once a month, a scheduled process for the good of the individuals), and, and most importantly, there is no sadness. All of this is strictly anti-social: against the society. Everything is done for the good of society.

DEFINITE SPOILERS AFTER THIS POINT.

Overall, I liked the book quite a bit, except for one thing: the moral it seems to exude. The basis of the problem begins in the next-to-last chapter, where John (the "Savage") is talking to his Fordship the Controller (kind of like Big Brother + the president), named Mustapha Mond. The conversation goes like this:

"Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from God–though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?"

"There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time."

"What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

"It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory."

"V.P.S.?"

"Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenalin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences."

"But I like the inconveniences."

"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."

"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."

"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."

"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

And here I found myself rooting for the Savage. He wants to be unhappy because it means he can have God and love and freedom and beautiful things. Of course, he couldn't have all of these things and stay in the society; that was just downright dangerous! But Mustapha Mond isn't completely bad. He lets the Savage pick where he is going to live, and he picks a small abandoned air-lighthouse (for planes, not boats) where he goes to plant food and read and torture the poisons of society out of himself. The society, however, cannot stay away (something that I am puzzled his Fordship allowed) and in the end they seem to drive him absolutely crazy, for he can't escape them. The last bit of the book goes:

That evening the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the Hog's Back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. The description of last night's orgy of atonement had been in all the papers.

"Savage!" called the first arrivals, as they alighted from their machine. "Mr. Savage!" There was no answer. The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked into a shuttered twilight. Through an archway on the further side of the room they could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the higher floors. Just under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet. "Mr. Savage!" Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east. …

And just like that, the savage is gone. And I, as the reader, am left with two conclusions. The first is that he died because he wanted suffering, because he wanted beauty and pain and God. That he died because he was not a part of the society, that this is what he gets for acting out and not taking soma. The second conclusion is that the society killed him. That they pursued him relentlessly and poisoned his soul until he hung himself. Either one I'm not happy with, to be honest.

Overall: I liked the book, didn't like the ending. Perhaps upon rereading I will like it better. I would suggest it to anyone though..... Although if you read this far the end is totally spoiled.