"Darkness visible" -- an interview with Kurt Vonnegut

[Matt Holcomb]

Darkness visible

By David Nason

19 November 2005

I AM trawling the meat section of a Gristedes supermarket on Manhattan's Upper West Side, wondering if there's such a thing in New York City as a beef sausage, when the writer some regard as a 20th-century Mark Twain rings on my mobile phone.

"I'm calling to make sure you're going to be at lunch on Monday," Kurt Vonnegut Jr says. He's referring to the rendezvous his publisher has organised for us.

Now it's not every day a giant of American letters unexpectedly interrupts the shopping and, momentarily, I'm taken aback. Then the embarrassment sets in.

The lunch we're having is to discuss Vonnegut's new book, A Man Without a Country. It's a collection of essays, speeches, articles and poems exploring his premise that American society is in terminal decay. Full of Vonnegut's trademark black humour, it has vat-loads of vitriol for Big Oil and George W. Bush.

It's also Vonnegut's first book since 1997 and given his age - he turned 83 a week ago - it might be his last. But right now, three days before we're due to meet at a French restaurant, I haven't read a single word.

So I mumble something apologetic and promise to devote the coming weekend to this task, before blurting out: "I should be right, mate, it's only a short book." This is a very dumb and potentially interview-crushing thing to say to an author, but thankfully Vonnegut doesn't seem to mind.

"Everything I write is short these days," he says. "It actually gets shorter and shorter all the time. In fact, I think it might all finally boil down to one word."

Vonnegut laughs at his little joke and seems in no hurry to go, so we talk some more.

I tell him I'm worried about meeting him in a restaurant because I'd read he smokes three packs of Pall Mall non-filters a day. Indeed, he has a standing joke about wanting to sue the cigarette maker for misleading advertising, given the product has not killed him as it promises to do on the packet.

He assures me it won't be a problem, but I'm not convinced. A talent distracted by a nicotine craving can kill an interview. It's why I wanted to talk with Vonnegut at his home. That, and the chance to see the sort of stuff he keeps around his house.

But the publisher would have none of it. Vonnegut, she said, was a writer who didn't want strangers in his house. Nor did he want any questions about his family. This is a pity because one of Vonnegut's daughters was once married to colourful Fox News anchor Geraldo Rivera, a man as far to the Right as Vonnegut is to the Left.

I'm about to raise the issue of these prohibitions when Vonnegut suddenly declares that the last time he ate with "Ossies" was in Dresden in World War II. Once again I'm taken aback.

Vonnegut is referring to his capture by German forces at the Battle of the Bulge in late 1944 and subsequent internment at a prisoner-of-war camp in Dresden, the city destroyed soon after by the horrific, unjustifiable Allied fire-bombing assault of February 1945. This was the twist of fate that ultimately came to define Vonnegut as a writer.

The Dresden atrocity inspired his 1969 anti-war classic Slaughterhouse-Five. A bestseller, it catapulted him to the heights of literary stardom.

Before S-5 Vonnegut was a run-of-the-mill sci-fi writer; after it he was a genius worthy of comparison with Twain.

At one level I'm excited that Vonnegut has so easily raised Dresden because however good his new book might be, what I really want to explore with him is his personal experience of war and soldiering.

I'm intrigued by the fact that as an infantryman serving in the US 106th Division in World War II, Vonnegut was a forward scout, a dangerous role always reserved for the most competent soldiers.

I also want to ask him about the impact of his mother's suicide in 1944, an act that took place while he was home on leave.

How heavily had this weighed on the young soldier's mind, especially after he was captured?

In his experimental 1973 novel Breakfast of Champions, Vonnegut has this internal conversation:

"This is a very bad book you're writing," I said to myself.

"I know," I said.

"You're afraid you'll kill yourself the way your mother did," I said.

"I know," I said.

* * *

YET I can't help feeling a sense of contrivance at how Dresden was introduced into our conversation. It's almost as if Vonnegut is telling me, "Hey man, don't forget that I once wrote a great book." No sooner has this thought entered my head than Vonnegut is bidding farewell.

"You Anzacs were pretty good soldiers," he tells me in parting. "But in the [North African] desert you were just cannon fodder."

We meet three days later outside La Mediterrane restaurant, a writers' hang-out on Manhattan's East Side. Vonnegut lives just around the corner, close to the UN. Coincidentally, it's United Nations Day, a good enough reason, I think, to seek his opinion of the world body.

A Man Without a Country - a book I have now read - provides no insight on this. The only reference to the UN is a passing one as Vonnegut declares his secret love for a woman who works in a post office used by New York's diplomatic community.

But meeting Vonnegut face to face on this beautiful autumn day in New York, I am taken aback yet again. Before me is not the debonair, gentleman writer I had expected but an unshaven, dishevelled man with wild, curly grey hair and frayed clothing.

He looks as if he has just crawled out from under a bush in Central Park.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind how people look and I often give money to beggars on the subway. It's just that in researching Vonnegut on the web I came across several still shots from recent television interviews. These introduced him to me as a scrubbed, clean-shaven, elegantly dressed man old man with carefully groomed hair. The Vonnegut in front of me couldn't have looked more different if he'd tried. But straight away I can sense that this Vonnegut, not the one on TV, is the real McCoy.

We shake hands and I get another surprise. Vonnegut is an average-sized man but he has massive hands. They hang from the sleeves of his ragged coat like the entrails of a freshly slaughtered animal. The veins that crisscross the backs of these monsters are as thick as knitting needles.

After I recover my hand, we go inside. Vonnegut wants to order straight away. He asks for the soup of the day, the fish of the day and a black coffee. He's not going to drink because he has another interview later in the afternoon.

As we talk, Vonnegut sits hunched forward and speaks softly and carefully. He has rested one of his huge paws on top of the other on the table in front of him and his goggle eyes, which must give him fantastic peripheral vision, dart around the room as we speak.

After pleasantries the conversation turns to his new book. To me it's mildly amusing, but structurally it doesn't work. A loose collection of random thoughts doesn't carry the argument that the US has become a lousy place.

And it's way too glum. Depressing, in fact. The humour is suffocated.

Occasionally there's a belly laugh, such as Vonnegut's complaint that he never wanted to live long enough to see a world where the three most powerful people in it were named Bush, Dick and Colon.

There are also wild bursts of life-affirming passion at odds with the overall negativity.

One is a Vonnegut plea for everyone to practise an art, because no matter how good or bad it is, the exercise will enhance the soul.

"Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories," Vonnegut commands.

"Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."

And, for me at least, there's at least one important clarification. I was always under the impression that Slaughterhouse-Five earned a cult following in the 1960s and early '70s partly because Vonnegut had written it while on LSD.

But as A Man Without a Country reveals, nothing could be farther from the truth. Apart from a few joints with the Grateful Dead one night, Vonnegut has steered well clear of drugs. His poisons are the grog and those unfiltered Pall Malls.

Vonnegut allows me to tape the interview, which begins like this:

Review: Let me say at the outset that I enjoyed reading the book.

KV: Well, that's friendly. Thank you.

Review: It's depressing reading, though. It's very black.

KV: Well, I'm depressed.

Review: Yes, obviously you are.

KV: Oh yes, I'm really depressed. I think we have wrecked the planet and I think the damage is quite permanent. I think it's too late now. And I never expected to live this long. My feeling now is that I'm completely incensed with this country. I feel what I felt after the Second World War: please can I go home now, I've done everything I was supposed to do.

* * *

(Cont'd)

[Matt Holcomb]

Darkness visible

Cont'd:

WHEW, big start. And so it went on. Any hopes I had that Vonnegut might rise above the gloom of his book and provide me with an unforgettably entertaining lunch were quickly snuffed out.

And as it continued, it became quite sad. Vonnegut has clearly reached a stage in his life where he just can't be bothered any more.

His conversation reflects this. Often he just repeats his book. It's almost as if he has deliberately memorised his best one-liners so he can weave them into whatever conversation he's forced to endure.

"Life is no way to treat an animal."

"If God were alive today he would be an atheist."

"The difference between Hitler and George Bush is that Hitler was elected."

"The United States needs another novel like it needs another symphony."

"There's been a wild party going on for about 150years now on fossil fuels and nobody wants to spoil it."

His oil industry spiel is at least an opportunity to break the pattern and probe the little-known fact that, when he wrote Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut was also running a car yard.

"I thought I would be able to live comfortably for the rest of my life writing for magazines, but then television came along," he explains.

"Magazines that had enough advertising to support five stories a week suddenly went down to two stories a week.

"My plan was shattered. So I got a car yard. I was a Saab dealer at Cape Cod. I never felt it was my destiny to be a writer, that I had any great talent that had to be used.

"I was simply trying to support a family. As head of a family, I had to support everybody. I would do anything to make money."

Vonnegut certainly had imposing family responsibilities. The first of his three children was born when he was 24; and when his sister died of cancer three days after her husband was killed in a train crash, he and his wife adopted three of their four young sons.

It meant that money was always tight, at least until Slaughterhouse-Five became the international success every writer dreams of.

Vonnegut tells me he always intended to write of his wartime experience and it was just a matter of waiting for the right time. It seems a good moment to begin my exploration of Vonnegut the soldier.

* * *

"WERE you a brave man in war?" I ask him.

Vonnegut's old back stiffens noticeably. "I didn't disappoint myself, no," he says firmly. "I didn't do anything that I was ashamed of afterwards."

For some reason the steely resolve that seems to accompany the answer strikes me as unusual. But there's no reason it should. Men who hate war are often proud of their military service.

It's quite legitimate for Vonnegut, a decorated soldier, to feel the same, whatever anti-war positions he may have adopted later in life. But there are genuine surprises ahead.

"Do you or did you bear any ill will towards your captors?" I ask.

Not at all," Vonnegut says. "And I regard anybody who is a soldier in any army that is at war as a brother of mine. I've been back to Dresden three times now and when I go there, I'm treated as a hometown boy."

Next I ask him about terrorism. It's not for any particular reason. It just seems a relevant thing to ask a writer who has seen war, who has written of war and who lives in New York City, where terrorism's horror is understood so well.

"What about terrorists? Do you understand where they're coming from? Do you regard them as soldiers too?" I ask.

Vonnegut's reply is startling. "I regard them as very brave people, yes," he says without a moment's hesitation.

"You don't think that they're mad, that, you know, anyone who would strap a bomb to himself must be mad?"

"Well, we had a guy [president Harry Truman] who dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, didn't we?" he says.

"What George Bush and his gang did not realise was that people fight back. Peace wasn't restored in Vietnam until we got kicked out. Everything's quiet there now."

There's a long pause before Vonnegut speaks again: "It is sweet and noble - sweet and honourable I guess it is - to die for what you believe in."

This borders on the outrageous. Is the author of one of the great anti-war books of the 20th century seriously saying that terrorists who kill civilians are "sweet and honourable"?

I ask one more question: "But terrorists believe in twisted religious things, don't they? So surely that can't be right?"

"Well, they're dying for their own self-respect," Vonnegut fires back. "It's a terrible thing to deprive someone of their self-respect. It's [like] your culture is nothing, your race is nothing, you're nothing."

There's another long pause and Vonnegut's eyes suggest his mind has wandered off somewhere. Then, suddenly, he turns back to me and says: "It must be an amazing high."

"What?" I ask. "Strapping a bomb to yourself," he says. "You would know death is going to be painless, so the anticipation ... must be an amazing high."

At this point, I give up. I can't be bothered asking him about any of the things I'd thought about: his mother's suicide, how he raised his sister's kids, the great writers he knew and partied with, how he looks back on Dresden.

Vonnegut has been many things: a grandmaster of American literature; a man who worked hard to support his family; a soldier who fought for his country.

But now he's old and he doesn't want to live any more. You only have to read his book to understand that. And because he can't find anything worthwhile to keep him alive, he finds defending terrorists somehow amusing.

* * *

EARLIER in the conversation Vonnegut talked about French writer Albert Camus. "He got a Nobel Prize for saying essentially - among other things - that life is absurd, so the only philosophical question is whether to commit suicide or continue to participate in absurdity.

"But I feel absurd is too weak a word. I think life is preposterous."

That's a matter of opinion, but if Vonnegut in his old age persists in defending terrorists, preposterous may be precisely how people remember him, and that would be unfortunate.

David Nason is The Australian's New York correspondent.

[speeder]

It does sound as though he's gone around the bend. Shame too, since he is a great American writer. I've been saying for a while that the current administration is like something out of a bad Kurt V. novel, (especially Cheney/Halliburton/the neocon cabal), but I'm not with him on the respecting terrorists thing.

[M.D. Holloway]

Terrorists are just a newer type warrior. If you dug a slit trench or sniped during the rev war you would have been considered evil. No self respecting warrior fought like that - same can be said or terrorism today. Not saying I agree or condone them. They are foes - but I say if that is they way they fight lets raise the bar with some black ops and bio-warfare and mini-nukes - *****'m.

[Matt Holcomb]

Originally posted by speeder
It does sound as though he's gone around the bend. Shame too, since he is a great American writer. I've been saying for a while that the current administration is like something out of a bad Kurt V. novel, (especially Cheney/Halliburton/the neocon cabal), but I'm not with him on the respecting terrorists thing.

I became a fan after studying "Slaughterhouse-Five" in high school.

Have you read any of his candid self-interviews?

I have to admit, there are days where I vacillate between despising terrorists and empathising with them ....

[RoninLB]

I hung with his daughter in the mid 70s.. great female.

[tabs]

Abdul Sr comes home from a long day herding the camels, sits down at the dinner table and says, "CC wheres my dinner?" CC hurrys in with a great big bowl of Goat stew thats been simmering all day.... Papa Abdul says, "Ohh CC could you bring me some hot coffee with some Goat milk in it." Pappa Abdul you see loves his coffee with Goat Milk and a hint of Sugar in it, and CC is always happy to serve her husband dutifully, as a GOOD Muslim wife should. Papa Abdul looks around and says where is my Little Abdul, why isn't here for dinner?" CC quietly shuffles about and quietly says, "Little Abdul is down at the Ali Baba Mall and Bazzar with his little Jihadie Buddies buying a new pair of Nikes and watching MTV on the Big Screen TV down there.....and he'll catch a bite to eat at Mickey Ds...you know how much he likes the Big Mac Camel Burgers and Coke Cola." "WHAT" proclaims Papa Abdul "Isn't being home and eating Goat Stew with the family good enough for Little Abdul anymore?" And so it goes for family values in the world....and one wonders why the USA is considered to be the Great Satan...aka as Corruptor of the world.

[bigbrotherjohn]

Terrorists are just a newer type warrior. If you dug a slit trench or sniped during the rev war you would have been considered evil. No self respecting warrior fought like that - same can be said or terrorism today. Not saying I agree or condone them. They are foes - but I say if that is they way they fight lets raise the bar with some black ops and bio-warfare and mini-nukes - *****'m.

You are right lube. The problem is, war is not an honorable or respectfull thing to be a part of. The newest way of fighting (in our generation, terrorism) is only the most up to date and most effective method of warfare (just as guerilla warfare was in the rev war era). This is presicely why the new generation of warriors are always deemed to be cowards and dishonorable, they are just a step above and beyond the old generation of soldiers in terms of their lack of morals and respect for human life. So yes, todays terrorists are cowards and dishonorable, but so are all other warriors who believe that killing others is justifiable. Todays terrorists are yesterdays American Revolutionaries regardless of whether the things they believe in are correct.

[Tobra]

Vonnegut, great writer.

I have always been a fan, but while watching more than one of his interviews was convinced he must be at least a little schizophrenic, though I suppose many talented folks have a touch of mental illness.

I am more concerned with the goals of the Islamic Terrorists, genocide, than with their tactics. This is where they and the Nazis are most similar, to make a more telling analogy than the clumsy "Hitler was elected" thing

[djmcmath]

Terrorism is hardly "new." Certainly a little history would reveal similar operations going back hundreds of years. Heck, in the first century Roman occupation of Israel, there was a group named "The Zealots" who were fond of assassinating civilians. I'm sure that they would have hauled backpacks full of explosives to the nearest sidewalk cafe, had the tools been available. Terror as a "new" idea? Only if you haven't read your history.

But that's a small point. I've honestly never liked Vonnegut's writing. People told me for the longest time that I'd love his work, so I finally broke down and read some. Somehow, it just didn't click with me. Too bizarre? Too random? Too dark? Don't know, but I'm not at all sure I like his writing. I know that I disagree with his views on terror.

[CJFusco]

Um. I think Mr. Nason is unofrtunately missing the point. No, the point isn't even in the same area code as his conclusions. It doesn't read like Vonnegut is defending the actions of the terrorists, but rather he is taking a roundabout way of refuting the inevitable claim that terrorism is cowardly (the same refutation that got Bill Maher kicked off of ABC in a slow death of ratings). Vonnegut's claim is that any warrior that dies for his cause, no matter how wayward that cause may be, has died bravely.

I've had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Vonnegut and his writer-doctor son, Mark. This would have been about three or four years ago, I suppose - he was about to turn 80. His physical appearance was aesthetically similar to Mr. Nason's description, but the effect it gave was not, as Mr. Nason seems to think, a disheveled street person, but an eccentric-but-wizened old sage.

His personality reflected his appearance. He said very wise and very funny things, and contrary to seeming like he'd "gone around the bend," he seemed far wiser in his old age than he ever did in his middle age (see the collection "Interviews With Kurt Vonnegut"). But here's the thing: he was a grouchy old man. If someone disagreed with him, he became dismissant (think about Clarkson dismissing May and Hammond for their positive views on Porsche). This is just his personality: his views are strong, and, to him, very very right.