A review by redbeanm0chi
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

3.75

At the start of the book the frank and brutal description of horrible things felt like being hit with a brick, but there’s almost like there’s no space for sadness or mourning here when everything is happening at once or all out of order. The constant repetition of “so it goes” no matter how sad or gruesome the death was, made the deaths seem insignificant almost. I was pretty numb by the end.

“You’ll pretend you were men instead of babies, and you’ll be played in the movies by Frank Sinatra and John Wayne or some of those other glamorous, war-loving, dirty old men. And war will look just wonderful, so we’ll have a lot more of them. And they’ll be fought by babies like the babies upstairs.”

The kind of first-person, omnipotent narrator who is kinda the author and kinda not was actually super interesting to read. I applaud Vonnegut for finding such a good way to write a book that reflects the chaotic mosaic of ptsd and trauma. I always feel like it’s interesting to see and process the most human experiences and feelings through the lens of sci-fi and fantasy.

“It had to be done,” Rumfoord told Billy, speaking of the destruction of Dresden.
“I know. I’m not complaining.”
“It must have been hell on the ground.”
“It was,” said Billy Pilgrim.
“Pity the men who had to do it.”
“I do.”
“You must have had mixed feelings, there on the ground.” 
“It was all right,” said Billy. “Everything is all right, and everybody has to do exactly what he does. I learned that on Tralfamadore.”

The writing style is absolutely monotonous and flat throughout the entire book; a neutral observation. I can see how it could be boring to read for many, but I didn’t mind it. It felt purposeful and contributed to a mood that suited the fatalistic topics.

“Why me?”
“That’s a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?”
“Yes.” …
“Well here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.”

“Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt”
Maybe if we were like the trapfamadorians it could all be beautiful and death would be meaningless, but we aren’t. And it isn’t. 

“It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like “Poo-tee-weet?”
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