It’s difficult to decipher the true
intentions of Kurt Vonnegut’s writing in this novel. He’s never completely straightforward;
every recollection, every conversation, every event was crafted with an
addition purpose in mind. The underlying meaning is never obvious, and I’ve
found myself questioning whether or not he intended for this novel to be a “story”
on numerous occasions. This isn’t to say
that Slaughterhouse Five is, by any
means, an essay, but it’s not quite a conventional story either.
There’s one scene in particular
that got me to think: the author is recalling a time when he contacted an old
friend from war, wishing to consult him with writing his novel. He meets his
old friend’s wife for the first time, who seems subtly distasteful of his presence.
She eventually reveals the reason for this; Mary, his friend’s wife, feels as
though war is glorified—sometimes unintentionally—every time a story is written
about it. This isn’t because she hates war per se, it’s because the authors don’t
acknowledge that they were only “babies” back then, similar to her own children.
But it isn’t written like this, it’s written as if the soldiers were actually “men”.
He vows to call it “The Children’s Crusade,” and Mary becomes his friend after
that.
Scenes like this are frequent,
where we can almost feel the fourth wall somehow break and are exposed to not
only the author’s 2 cents, but also some food for thought. Scenes like the one
described above, and his signature “So it goes” death motif seem to define the
true substance of Vonnegut’s writing. He’s not simply here to recite a
compelling tale, but to also outline his thoughts on war itself—not explicitly
the war he participated in (WWII), but the age-old sport of war.
No comments:
Post a Comment