love, read, write

"So it goes."

And so, in the span of two days, I finish this rather simple book which, initially, seemed like Nothing Much. Yet here I am, writing a reflection of sorts because this book, in its narrative convulsions, has left some sort of metaphorical bruise on me. Perhaps it will go away quickly. For now, though, I can recall most of the feelings I had as I read through the novel.

Any war book, when written, should be handled with responsibility and knowledge. One must know the ins and outs of war and its repercussions because mass-slaughter is not a topic which should be dealt with in a light fashion. Vonnegut handles the issue wonderfully.

I feel, as I close this book, as if I am emerging from a long crusade (hah) or journey, as if I, too, have been alongside Billy Pilgrim during his many adventures of sorts. In the beginning, however, I had no idea where I was going. In fact, when I first began to read the first (and then the second, and then the third, and so on) chapter of the book, I thought this would be another boring war novel. The only reason I read past the first chapter was because the narrative wasn't too boring and there were quotes on the back cover proclaiming this book to be a "funny, sad, and delightful" book. (I guess quotes on the backs of books actually do things.)

As I read through the book, I mostly observed and read. Only when I closed the book did I stop to think about the overall message and the rather confusing aftertaste that this plot had left me. At first, I was confused. What did I just read? And then it slowly creeped on me how profound this book really is... And here I am, my memory of the book clear enough to create a puddle for me to splash around in as I write this review (or an excuse of a book review).

What I get out of this book, now, is the idea that life goes on ("so it goes"), death is not permanent (simply an illusion of time), and that any war is a children's crusade of blindly flailing soldiers who had, previously, been optometrists or doctors or professors or high school teachers. That war is simply the haphazard bringing-together of lost humans with eclectic thought-processes, ranging from the belief in Tralfamadore to a false sense of wisdom to useless patriotism. I know I may be very wrong, but these are my impressions.

Many ideas underscore the plot of this story. One of them is repeated multiple times in this book. It is, "So it goes." Perhaps it is now my favorite quote because it poignantly expresses everything in life. Well, someone died. This happened. Life ended. Life began. But what does it all mean? Nothing. The world goes on. So it goes.

This, to me, is a powerful message because it isn't just about "nobody cares what happens to you." It's the fact that there are greater forces in this world, as the Tralfamadore-aliens say, that govern what happens in life. It is not so much a matter of fate, destiny, or will, but simply fact. Time is an illusion in which we live and accept as reality, but what will happen will happen and what has happened has happened. "The moment is structured in that way." I love that line, too. It almost lifts the burden off of every second of life, every hesitating moment in which we reflect or look down at our toes and ask ourselves, "What am I doing right now?" and more importantly, "Am I doing the right thing?" Sometimes, the prospect of trying to do the "right things" in life is daunting, intimidating. It seems too lofty an expectation for feeble-minded humans to fulfill. Perhaps it is. And this book, Slaughterhouse Five, untangles those scary mysteries. Perhaps there is a right answer to life, a "best choice" to all decisions. But does it matter? What will happen will happen. The moment is structured that way. Each moment is. There is nothing we can do; we are who we are and we will do what we will do.

Vonnegut also touches on the idea of death and eternity. He says that life will run its course and that we will live a life that is eternal because once we exist, our existence will last to the infinities in every dimension. This is an idea which I, too, have contemplated in my own silences. To see it written in such an odd yet poignant way is exciting. It is true, I think. Our existence is affirmed by ourselves, in a way, and once we are here, we are here forever. Time, to us, is a one-dimensional one-way highway, but that does not mean that what has passed no longer exists and what will happen is yet to be made. (But that's just abstract theory-meddling.)

Another idea that Vonnegut underscores is that Billy Pilgrim is one representative of every soul in not just war but also life. We are all like Billy Pilgrim, like Roland Wary, like Paul Lazzaro, like Edgar Derby. We are all lost, groping for answers, tripping over our own thoughts. We are all afraid, searching for a friend, fearing loneliness, yet losing friends, running into tough luck. We are all unstable, lashing out in times of fear, promising ourselves protection while, at the core, being unsure of our own existence. We are all proud to some extent, trying to convince ourselves that we are in control, sometimes losing that confidence and realizing that we are victims to an intangible self-element which we will never quite understand.

The more I think about it, the more I like this book. I would rate it very highly, but I feel as if I should not rate this book. That it exists as it exists, and that you (yes, you), should pick it up and skim through it one day, perhaps a very detailed skim, so that you too can understand how beautiful this confusing narrative is.

It is also of interest that this book is written in a very matter-of-fact, light tone. Wikipedia calls it a satirical novel, and it is indeed a very satirical one. Mostly because it makes war such a "matter-of-fact" topic with such ridiculous inserts (especially Kilgore Trout's novels). How can these light, seemingly absurd details weigh into the topic of war and Billy Pilgrim's struggles? In exactly the way we view our own selves and their happenings. Vonnegut's narrative style creates such a tangled mop of ideas and happenings that it resembles closely how we try to deal with our own ridiculous lives. Funny, isn't it--the way we try to deal with the future as if we will be prepared for what will happen, when really, we know as much about what will happen tomorrow as we do about the beginning of the universe? Vonnegut's use of comedy solidifies the illusion of life and uncertainty and also how frivolous this entire "life" thing is. And, thus, the frivolity of "war." What will happen tomorrow? Nobody knows. Perhaps we'll live. Perhaps we'll die. So it goes.

Everything which happens in this book, seemingly sudden, seemingly ridiculous, seem to outline the very important fact that life is life and what happens happens. So it goes, Vonnegut says. So it goes.