Product Description

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

“[This] may be as close as Vonnegut ever comes to a memoir.”
–Los Angeles Times

“Like [that of] his literary ancestor Mark Twain, [Kurt Vonnegut’s] crankiness is good-humored and sharp-witted. . . . [Reading A Man Without a Country is] like sitting down on the couch for a long chat with an old friend.”
–The New York Times Book Review

In a volume that is penetrating, introspective, incisive, and laugh-out-loud funny, one of the great men of letters of this age–or any age–holds forth on life, art, sex, politics, and the state of America’s soul. From his coming of age in America, to his formative war experiences, to his life as an artist, this is Vonnegut doing what he does best: Being himself. Whimsically illustrated by the author, A Man Without a Country is intimate, tender, and brimming with the scope of Kurt Vonnegut’s passions.

“For all those who have lived with Vonnegut in their imaginations . . . this is what he is like in person.”
–USA Today

“Filled with [Vonnegut’s] usual contradictory mix of joy and sorrow, hope and despair, humor and gravity.”
–Chicago Tribune

“Fans will linger on every word . . . as once again [Vonnegut] captures the complexity of the human condition with stunning calligraphic simplicity.”
–The Australian

“Thank God, Kurt Vonnegut has broken his promise that he will never write another book. In this wondrous assemblage of mini-memoirs, we discover his family’s legacy and his obstinate, unfashionable humanism.”
–Studs Terkel

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #17542 in Books
• Published on: 2007-01-16
• Released on: 2007-01-16
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 160 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780812977363
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

From Publishers Weekly
In his first book since 1999, it's just like old times as Vonnegut (now 82) makes with the deeply black humor in this collection of articles written over the last five years, many from the alternative magazine In These Times. But the pessimistic wisecracks may be wearing thin; the conversational tone of the pieces is like Garrison Keillor with a savage undercurrent. Still, the schtick works fine most of the time, underscored by hand-lettered aphorisms between chapters. Some essays suffer from authorial self-indulgence, however, like taking a dull story about mailing a manuscript and stretching it to interminable lengths. Vonnegut reserves special bile for the "psychopathic personalities" (i.e., "smart, personable people who have no consciences") in the Bush administration, which he accuses of invading Iraq so America can score more of the oil to which we have become addicted. People, he says, are just "chimpanzees who get crazy drunk on power." Of course, that's exactly the sort of misanthropy hardcore Vonnegut fans will lap up—the online versions of these pieces are already described as the most popular Web pages in the history of In These Times. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

About the Author
Kurt Vonnegut is among the few grandmasters of 20th century American letters, one without whom the very term American literature would mean much less than it does. His works include Slaughterhouse Five, Galapagos, and Welcome to the Monkey House. He is the author, most recently, of God Bless You Dr. Kevorkian.

Daniel Simon is founder and publisher of Seven Stories Press and served as editor on two previous books by Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian and, with Lee Stringer, Like Shaking Hands God. Simon is also co-author of a biography of Abbie Hoffman, Run, Run, Run: The Lives of Abbie Hoffman.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1

As a kid I was the youngest member of my family, and the youngest child in any family is always a jokemaker, because a joke is the only way he can enter into an adult conversation. My sister was five years older than I was, my brother was nine years older than I was, and my parents were both talkers. So at the dinner table when I was very young, I was boring to all those other people. They did not want to hear about the dumb childish news of my days. They wanted to talk about really important stuff that happened in high school or maybe in college or at work. So the only way I could get into a conversation was to say something funny. I think I must have done it accidentally at first, just accidentally made a pun that stopped the conversation, something of that sort. And then I found out that a joke was a way to break into an adult conversation.

I grew up at a time when comedy in this country was superb—it was the Great Depression. There were large numbers of absolutely top comedians on radio. And without intending to, I really studied them. I would listen to comedy at least an hour a night all through my youth, and I got very interested in what jokes were and how they worked.

When I’m being funny, I try not to offend. I don’t think much of what I’ve done has been in really ghastly taste. I don’t think I have embarrassed many people, or distressed them. The only shocks I use are an occasional obscene word. Some things aren’t funny. I can’t imagine a humorous book or skit about Auschwitz, for instance. And it’s not possible for me to make a joke about the death of John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King. Otherwise I can’t think of any subject that I would steer away from, that I could do nothing with. Total catastrophes are terribly amusing, as Voltaire demonstrated. You know, the Lisbon earthquake is funny.

I saw the destruction of Dresden. I saw the city before and then came out of an air-raid shelter and saw it afterward, and certainly one response was laughter. God knows, that’s the soul seeking some relief.

Any subject is subject to laughter, and I suppose there was laughter of a very ghastly kind by victims in Auschwitz.

Humor is an almost physiological response to fear. Freud said that humor is a response to frustration—one of several. A dog, he said, when he can’t get out a gate, will scratch and start digging and making meaningless gestures, perhaps growling or whatever, to deal with frustration or surprise or fear.

And a great deal of laughter is induced by fear. I was working on a funny television series years ago. We were trying to put a show together that, as a basic principle, mentioned death in every episode and that this ingredient would make any laughter deeper without the audience’s realizing how we were inducing belly laughs.

There is a superficial sort of laughter. Bob Hope, for example, was not really a humorist. He was a comedian with very thin stuff, never mentioning anything troubling. I used to laugh my head off at Laurel and Hardy. There is terrible tragedy there somehow. These men are too sweet to survive in this world and are in terrible danger all the time. They could be so easily killed.


Even the simplest jokes are based on tiny twinges of fear, such as the question, “What is the white stuff in bird poop?” The auditor, as though called upon to recite in school, is momentarily afraid of saying something stupid. When the auditor hears the answer, which is, “That’s bird poop, too,” he or she dispels the automatic fear with laughter. He or she has not been tested after all.

“Why do firemen wear red suspenders?” And “Why did they bury George Washington on the side of a hill?” And on and on.

True enough, there are such things as laughless jokes, what Freud called gallows humor. There are real-life situations so hopeless that no relief is imaginable.

While we were being bombed in Dresden, sitting in a cellar with our arms over our heads in case the ceiling fell, one soldier said as though he were a duchess in a mansion on a cold and rainy night, “I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight.” Nobody laughed, but we were still all glad he said it. At least we were still alive! He proved it.

Customer Reviews

Crouching Essayist
In my review of "Timequake," I labelled Vonnegut as "Novelist Emeritus," noting that his writing is still enjoyable, you read it with half a smile on your face. But you are laughing and smiling with polite respect towards the old master.

I picked up "A Man without a Country" at the Coop and opened at random, and read this paragraph:

"In case you haven't noticed, as the result of a shamelessly rigged election in Florida, in which thousands of African Americans were arbitrarily disenfranchised, we now present ourselves to the rest of the world as proud, grinning, jut-jawed, pitiless war-lovers with appallingly powerful weaponry- who stand unopposed."

He continues on in this vein, and draws parallels between the current worldview of America and the way the world viewed Germany as the Nazis rose to power. He has the clarity and honesty to refer to the characters running the Bush administration as psychopaths.

Wow! I take it all back. Perhaps, in "Timequake" he was burdened with the artifact of a failed novel, but wanted to make something out of it, colored it with his unique perspective but ended up with a softer version of his usual fare. It felt a little lazy, like Vonnegut imitating Vonnegut.

But here, freed from the artifice of fiction, we get classic Vonnegut. In fact, more than a return to form, but better than ever. This book finds him clever and witty, but also very angry and indignant, and righteously so. I have the same concerns and emotions but lack the ability to formulate it and express it in words so beautifully. So it's refreshing to read Vonnegut, and it's inspiring to know that he is not the doddering old professor but a wise old lion with still plenty of bite left.

I won't try to tell you it's all great, that there are none of the soft, self-indulgent moments that detract from his later novels, but there is plenty of greatness on display. Buy it, read it, enjoy it. Thank you for listening.

Everything Was Beautiful
Reviews like the one below by the 23-year-old who never had read Vonnegut before this current volume remind me of Mr. V.'s statement (I paraphrase, perhaps grotesquely) that the cumulative effect of the Vietnam-war protests and of '60s activism in general was that of a banana-cream pie hurled off a stepladder: here is unquestionably the Greatest of contemporary American novelists, whose work and vision as a whole provide clarity, wisdom, and guidance with humor and love for both the survival of the species and for America--yet he remains largely ignored and neglected by the current American demos, for whom democracy is named, and reviewed by only 24 or so while the latest potboiler gets 345 Amazon reviews the very day it's published.

Certainly Vonnegut himself is well aware of these vagaries of fame and influence.

But let me heartily proclaim the obvious--that we truly should declare Mr. V.'s birthday a new national holiday (strapping it firmly to the one, for some, it already is on 11/11); schoolchildren should compete in Vonnegut Declamation Contests, vying to repeat from memory the longest and most salient passages from his works; we should have Vonnegut Festivals, Seminars, Television sitcoms, toothpaste, bottled water--even a Vonnegut Party in national, state, and local elections, which might well take the place of the corrupt and anemic Democrats.

Alas, it seems we are repeating the past as the Old Reliables (Studs Terkel, John Leonard, and company) trot out their appropriate praises; some teevee interviews are conducted; the bored Harvard and Yale crowds clap politely; the schoolchildren continue with their videogaming and baby-producing; and New Orleans is reduced to a new Love Canal, Iraq civil-wars, the wealthy bolt their gated enclaves, and the rest of us, debt-torn and grief-fatigued, stew in our own juices.

Look: if you haven't done so recently, go back and reread (or first-read) SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE, CAT'S CRADLE, HOCUS-POCUS, GALAPAGOS, GOD BLESS YOU MR. ROSEWATER, and MOTHER NIGHT (among others: but start with these).

Think about what the man is saying. Look around you. Maybe turn off your television for a moment of silence.

Here is the real deal, folks.

This is our guy. Ignore him at your peril.

Let's get those "Sermon on the Mount" plaques up in every corporate lobby.

Let's get tap-dancing. There's not much time left for a party.

The perfect epilogue.
Kurt finally concludes the half-century journey on which he has taken us with this hilarious, heartfelt, charming epilogue. Vonnegut gives us literary polaroids of his childhood and day-to-day life, places us at the dinner table with Mark Twain, Jesus, Abraham Lincoln, and Eugene Debs, and manages to answer the question: "What does it mean to be human?" All the while single handedly battling George W. Bush, H-Bombs, and the "Guessers."