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I didn't like Vonnegut.

He had one good book in him (Slaughterhouse-Five) and then he kept writing it again. Norman Mailer had a similar trajectory. The war, then The Naked and the Dead, followed by celebrity and admiration and a string of terrible books. Vonnegut had good ideas after that, but not very good books. He's a bad influence on other writers, and he was a bad influence on himself in the same way. That self-important, nearly echolalic fairy-tale storytelling style never varied. Reading Vonnegut never felt like hearing a story; it was more like being backed into a corner at a cocktail party by the man himself while he told his too-familiar stories yet again.

Like Tom Robbins and John irving, Kurt Vonnegut wrote young adult novels that were sold to grown-ups. Like other counterculture heroes and hippie gurus, he was an unmoveable conservative who never changed his style or his message. And like the Grateful Dead, he had armies of fans who would never doubt him.

I've felt this way about Vonnegut for a long time. There's been more violent opposition to this opinion is than most of my tiresome and admittedly annoying political and philosophical ideas or even my macaroni & cheese recipe. I have lost two "LJ Friends" over Vonnegut and I shouldn't talk books with some of my friends in case The Topic comes up.

I can't say so for sure, but I think Vonnegut himself tired of being a sacred object.

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Date: 2007-04-15 01:52 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] nosrialleon.livejournal.com
I've been thinking along similar lines in the last couple of days. I liked him tremendously as a person, and saw him speak once, and always enjoyed when he would step into the public eye, remind us about how screwed we are, and dissappear again for a couple of years.

But his books, yeesh. The writing was nice, and I didn't mind the stories. But I could never read one more than once. Shit, I'll even read Stephen King books a second time. With Vonnegut I'd start, realize I knew exactly what was going to happen and that it was going to be an unpleasant trip that I didn't want to make again. And I didn't get the impression that the trip would pay off in finding subtle counter-messages or symbolism beyond the overt ones that he spent whole books pummelling me in the face with.

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