Broad humor & bitter irony collide in this fictional autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, who, at age 71, wants to be left alone on his Long Island estate with the secret he has locked inside his potato barn. But then a voluptuous young widow badgers Rabo into telling his life story--& Vonnegut in turn tells us the plain, heart-hammering truth about humankind's carele
Broad humor & bitter irony collide in this fictional autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, who, at age 71, wants to be left alone on his Long Island estate with the secret he has locked inside his potato barn. But then a voluptuous young widow badgers Rabo into telling his life story--& Vonnegut in turn tells us the plain, heart-hammering truth about humankind's careless fancy to create or destroy what he loves.
Recommends it for:
People who don't hate good books
One thing I've discovered is that people tend to have different favorites of Vonnegut's work. Many prefer Slaughter House Five, some love Breakfast of Champions, and my sister's favorite is Galapagos.
The only person I've ever met whose favorite Vonnegut book is Bluebeard is... me. So it goes.
The book follows former abstract expressionist painter Rabo Karabekian, serving as his autobiography and a mystery story simultaneously. The mystery? What is Rabo keeping in the huge potato barn on his larg
One thing I've discovered is that people tend to have different favorites of Vonnegut's work. Many prefer Slaughter House Five, some love Breakfast of Champions, and my sister's favorite is Galapagos.
The only person I've ever met whose favorite Vonnegut book is Bluebeard is... me. So it goes.
The book follows former abstract expressionist painter Rabo Karabekian, serving as his autobiography and a mystery story simultaneously. The mystery? What is Rabo keeping in the huge potato barn on his large estate.
Some of you may remember Mr. Karabekian from Breakfast of Champions; he was largely the same character, albeit younger in years. He's famous for his paintings, you see: he would take huge canvases, spray paint them all one color, and put pieces of colored tape on them.
There's several jokes regarding Rabo's paintings, one of which he gave away in Breakfast: his work is Rabo's view of the human soul. When you strip away all of the unnecessary crap that makes us up, we're all basically glowing shafts of light, represented by the pieces of tape.
I won't give away the other joke, but it's a good one.
Anyway, this book is a lot of things: a reflection on an imaginary life, a faux biography, and a moral we could all probably take to heart. And we do get to find out what Bluebeard keeps in his potato barn. It's a darned big thing.
This is Vonnegut, so it’s quirky, knowing, silly, intelligent, funny, mysterious (what IS in the potato barn?) and anti-war – amongst many other things. It's conversational, and broken into very short chunks, but don't be deceived into thinking it's lightweight.
It claims to be the autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, an Armenian-American WW2 veteran who became a major figure in Abstract Expressionism, after an apprenticeship with realist illustrator, Dan Gregory. It reads more as a memoir, intersp
This is Vonnegut, so it’s quirky, knowing, silly, intelligent, funny, mysterious (what IS in the potato barn?) and anti-war – amongst many other things. It's conversational, and broken into very short chunks, but don't be deceived into thinking it's lightweight.
It claims to be the autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, an Armenian-American WW2 veteran who became a major figure in Abstract Expressionism, after an apprenticeship with realist illustrator, Dan Gregory. It reads more as a memoir, interspersed with “Bulletin from the present” sections which cover the eventful months he wrote it. The backstory is relatively straight; the present day, more comical. (All the main characters are fictitious, but a few real names are dropped, such as Jackson Pollock.)
It’s the 1980s, Rabo is in his 70s, and is living alone in a huge house in the Hamptons. He no longer paints, but is wealthy from his art collection and from property he inherited on the death of his second wife, Edith. He’s not actually alone, as his cook lives in, with her daughter, and his writer friend, Paul Slazenger, practically lives there. But he wants to be alone, or thinks he does – until it looks as if it’s going to happen (his mother thought “the most pervasive American disease was loneliness”). Then the widow Circe Berman turns up, and everything changes.
THE MEANING AND VALUE OF ART
“How can you tell a good painting from a bad one? All you have to do… is look at a million paintings, and they you can never be mistaken.”
Should paintings – and their titles – communicate? (If not, what’s the point?) This is a recurring question, with a variety of answers. Old, lonely, and guarding his Abstract Expressionist paintings, Rabo says that they “are about absolutely nothing but themselves”, and lack of passion and message in his works was why he was rejected by art school. When Circe first sees his abstract works, she declares “you hate facts like poison”. And yet Rabo CAN draw – very well; the fact he doesn’t is “because it’s just too fucking
easy
.”
In contrast, Dan Gregory’s works are hyper-realistic, and Rabo describes them as “truthful about material things, but they lied about time” because Dan was “a taxidermist… [of] great moments”. One of the first things he taught Rabo was the importance of the phrase “The Emperor has no clothes”. It’s for the reader to decide which art that applies to.
There is a visceral thrill: “I discovered something as powerful and irresponsible as shooting up with heroin: if I start laying on just one colour of paint to a huge canvas, I could make the whole world drop away”. But it doesn’t work like that for everyone: of one artist, “I would look into his eyes and there wasn’t anybody home any more”, and he says similar about someone else.
Inflated art prices (and exploitative venture capitalists and investment bankers) are lampooned, especially by the fact that “My paintings, thanks to unforeseen chemical reactions… all destroyed themselves”, including ones that sold for $20,000. Sateen Dura-Luxe proved to be anything but durable. In contrast, his teenage works were made with the best possible materials, given to him from the stores of a successful artist.
Writing is another art form central to the narrative: Rabo is now writing; his friends Circe Berman and Paul Slazenger are also writers, of varying success, and the letters of Dan Gregory’s PA, Marilee, are crucial to the story. The secret is “to write for just one person”. How you decide who that is, is unclear.
CIRCE BERMAN
The widow Berman is a wonderful comic creation; I’d love to meet her, though hate to share a home with her. Her opening line on meeting Rabo is “Tell me how your parents died”, because “hello” means “don’t talk about anything important”. It’s also symptomatic of her pathological inquisitiveness (“the most ferocious enemy of privacy I ever knew”). His father died alone in a cinema, and she immediately asks “What was the movie?” – shades of Graham Greene’s short story,
A Shocking Incident
.
Her chutzpah is breath-taking – the way she storms into Rabo’s life and takes control of him, his house, his time and those around him. He is staggered, outraged… and compliant: “’Who is she to reward and punish me, and what the hell is this: a nursery school or a prison camp?’ I don’t asker that, because she might take away all my privileges.”
BLUEBEARD and WHAT’S IN THE POTATO BARN
I read this book because I wanted to read another Vonnegut, and I was intrigued to see to what extent the title reflected the traditional story of Bluebeard (see
synopsis/review
), or even its echoes in
Jane Eyre
.
It’s a gentle nod, but it helps if you’re aware of the original: In the grounds, Rabo has a potato barn that used to be his studio. It is now locked up, and its contents secret: “I am Bluebeard, and my studio is my forbidden chamber”, but “there are no bodies in my barn”.
Much of the book is an elaborate tease as to what’s in there, why, and whether the reader will ever find out. In contrast to his allegedly message-less paintings, Rabo says that the barn contains “the emptiest and yet the fullest of human messages”.
There are other forbidden places: Dan Gregory’s is the Museum Of Modern Art, Paul Slazenger’s is his Theory of Revolution, currently in his head, and Circe Berman must have something, but I don’t know what or where.
WAR, DEATH and RESURRECTION
The main character is an injured veteran who came to the US as a child refugee from another war. It’s not a ranting pacifist book, and Rabo himself has fond memories of the army, but Vonnegut’s anti-war opinions shine through, especially at the end. Sometimes this is poignant: Rabo is utterly repulsed by the scarring around his missing eye, and always wears a patch. Sometimes it is more satirical: WW2 was promoted to Americans on promises of “a final war between good and evil, so that nothing would do but that it be followed by miracles, Instant coffee was one. DDT was another. It was going to kill all the bugs, and almost did. Nuclear energy was going to make electricity so cheap that it might not even be metered… Antibiotics would defeat all diseases.
Lazarus
would never die: How was that for a scheme to make the Son of God obsolete?”
In fact, it’s Rabo who is Lazarus. Circe explicitly says so when he complains about her intrusion into and control of him, “I brought you back to life… You’re my Lazarus”, and his beloved second wife, Edith, had had a similar effect.
As a youth, Rabo assumed society had evolved so that people would no longer be fooled by the apparent romance of war, but as an old man, he observes “you can buy a machine gun with a plastic bayonet for your little kid”.
THE INIMITABLE DAN GREGORY (REFRAIN)
The central third of the book feels as much like a biography of Dan Gregory as of Rabo.
Where
Slaughterhouse Five
has the recurring phrase “so it goes”, in this, it’s a series of superlatives about Dan Gregory: “Nobody could [do x] like Dan Gregory”. His achievements include: “draw cheap, mail-order clothes”, “paint grime”, “counterfeit rust and rust-stained oak”, “counterfeit plant diseases”, “counterfeit more accents from stage, screen and radio”, “counterfeit images in dusty mirrors”, “paint black people”, “put more of the excitement of a single moment into the eyes of stuffed animals”.
QUOTES
• “Never trust a survivor… until you find out what he did to stay alive.”
• “Perfectly beautiful cowboy boots… dazzling jewelry for manly feet.”
• “She had life. I had accumulated anecdotes.”
• Old canvases “Purged of every trace of Sateen Dura-Luxe, and restretched and reprimed… dazzling white in their restored virginity.”
• “They are a
negation
of art! They aren’t just neutral. They are black holes from which no intelligence or skill can ever escape. Worse than that, they suck up the dignity, the self-respect, of anybody unfortunate enough to have to look at them.” (What Rabo thinks of Circe’s choice of pictures.)
Suggested by Rand (as being in a similar vein to Vonnegut's excellent
Galapagos
).
This is maybe the fourth or fifth Vonnegut book I've read, having only been introduced to him recently, sadly. I'm becoming quite a fan of his writing. What I like about him is that a lot of deep truths mask the ironic and humorous statements he makes. Definitely a must-read for those who like satire.
Wow. This was a novel that's going to keep me thinking for a long, long time. It was everything jam packed into a small little book: clever, tragic, engrossing, laugh out loud funny, imaginative, unexpected, and even transformative, I think. There are so many layers to this book I'm sure I'll be thinking about it off and on for the next several months at least and will almost definitely re-read this book a number of times before I reach room temperature.
Check it out: The protagonist/autobiograph
Wow. This was a novel that's going to keep me thinking for a long, long time. It was everything jam packed into a small little book: clever, tragic, engrossing, laugh out loud funny, imaginative, unexpected, and even transformative, I think. There are so many layers to this book I'm sure I'll be thinking about it off and on for the next several months at least and will almost definitely re-read this book a number of times before I reach room temperature.
Check it out: The protagonist/autobiographer is a veteran who lost an eye in WWII who later becomes one of the biggest jokes of the Abstract Expressionist art movement because all of his art disintegrates due to a poor choice of paint. He started life as an illustrator who couldn't make it as a 'real' artist because his paintings lacked depth and vision. And then he goes off to WWII and LITERALLY LOSES HIS SENSE OF DEPTH by having one of his eyes shot out. Ironically, I think it's this literal and figurative lack of depth perception that enables him to survive and not commit suicide while all of his other artist friends don't. There is more to this thing about eyes and perception, too. When both his father and some other artists are at their most creative, their eyes become dead. Half of this guy's eyes are already dead, so he's not able to see what they're seeing, so he can't be harmed/driven to suicide by it. It's only at the very end of the book, perhaps when he's finally old/strong/mature/stable enough to cope with everything he's seen is he really able to paint something that combines the objective reality of illustration and the visceral experience of abstract expressionism. This shit was some mind-freeing stuff for me. Reading it right now for some reason.
And then there's the whole thing about forbidden rooms and curiosity...the name of the book itself, and whatever it is that the guy has locked away in the potato barn. Both the original Bluebeard story and Vonnegut's have curious, prying women, too.
But the thing that's occupying my mind about the book right now is endings. In one part of the book, a female character talks about how Ibsen's The Doll House ended the wrong way. The Doll House's female lead leaves the house and everyone's left to assume she goes to Happily Ever After. But the woman in Bluebeard believes she throws herself in front of a train. Mostly because there really was no Happily Ever After for women at that time. Only more doll houses. I read that and I'm, like, "Yeah, life is harsh and it's crappy to have books end happily. Good books gotta end sad." So then this book goes and ends on a positive note. At first I was pretty bummed that everything works out in the end. But then I thought, "It's only ME who tacks on the 'Happily Ever After' part. Even though he has started the process of healing, this guy has a whole long row to hoe that is not going to be happy, pretty or any other easy positive word." In the same way that Vonnegut's character has finally found a way to combine literal but soulless illustration with abstract expressionism, maybe I'm getting closer to being able to see 'happily ever after,' and 'life is still super hard' as two sides of the same simultaneously experienced reality.
I have been going on like this in my head since I finished this book 24 hours ago and things just seem to be speeding up, as far as I can tell. The sign of a great book, in my book.
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I have vague memories of reading Vonnegut before—I have some very old, very pulp editions of some of his other novels that I … er … “liberated” from my father. I swear I’ve read
Breakfast of Champions
before, and I’m pretty sure I read either
Cat’s Cradle
or
Player Piano
at my sister’s wedding. I remember this because I was only 15, but the server still offered me wine (I declined). Suffice it to say, although Vonnegut is associated with some interesting mem
I read Vonnegut now. Vonnegut is cool.
I have vague memories of reading Vonnegut before—I have some very old, very pulp editions of some of his other novels that I … er … “liberated” from my father. I swear I’ve read
Breakfast of Champions
before, and I’m pretty sure I read either
Cat’s Cradle
or
Player Piano
at my sister’s wedding. I remember this because I was only 15, but the server still offered me wine (I declined). Suffice it to say, although Vonnegut is associated with some interesting memories, this is really the first of his novels that I have read as an adult, and the first one I remember well enough to review.
Bluebeard
is easy to read and, therefore, easy to dismiss. Thanks to the conversational first person narration and the consistent switching between Rabo’s reminiscences and the present day at his home in the Hamptons,
Bluebeard
feels
like a light novel. Yet this is also a story about genocide survivors, abusive relationships, the horror of war, and the horror of mediocrity. This book is an excellent example of how levity can be just as good at delivering a polemic against war as more gritty, realistic depictions like you might find in
The Kindly Ones
or in Hollywood movies.
Vonnegut has some choice words for the way movies, in general, portray war. His narrator, Rabo Karabekian, points out that most of the veterans in those movies are the age he was when he returned home, and not the young striplings whose lives are shattered on the front. In general, as one familiar with Vonnegut might expect, utter disdain for war and for the glorification of war pervades
Bluebeard
, almost dripping off the pages. What makes the book so impressive—and so successful—is how Vonnegut manages to do this in such a pithy way:
That was an ordinary way for a patriotic American to talk back then. It’s hard to believe how sick of war we used to be. We used to boast of how small our Army and Navy were, and how little influence generals and admirals had in Washington. We used to call armaments manufacturers “Merchants of Death.”
Can you imagine that?
Coming from a country whose armed forces are routinely ridiculed for their perceived lack of personnel or equipment, I totally can, Rabo. I love this passage so much, because it demonstrates the irony of contemporary ideas of American patriotism—failing to support the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan somehow makes one “un-American”, or at the very least constitutes a “suspicious” action, a black mark on one’s patriotism. Vonnegut, the Vietnam War no doubt weighing heavily in his mind as he wrote this, wanted to remind us that the militaristic mindset that accompanied the United States’ rise as a twentieth-century superpower was not always the status quo.
Rabo Karabekian is an awesome narrator in general, because
he does not bullshit.
He strikes me as a man who knows exactly who he is, who is comfortable with his place in the world, who accepts his flaws and failures and position of mediocrity. In the end, he is as divested of illusions as it is possible for a human to be. This is an incredibly refreshing type of narrator to have. Rabo doesn’t ask for forgiveness and doesn’t offer up excuses (beyond joining us in shaking our heads at his youthful naïvety). He is self-deprecating, but he does not wallow in self-pity. He has been through war. He married, divorced, married again, and survived his second wife. He is American in citizenship and, mostly, in sentiment, yet he has taken up the flag of his father to carry on their cultural heritage as Armenians—he leaves all his property and wealth to his estranged sons, on the condition that they legally change their names and those of his grandchildren back to “Karabekian”.
So Rabo is complex yet comfortable, and he is definitely the heart of this story. That might seem obvious given that
Bluebeard
is a fictional autobiography, but I would argue that there’s a difference between being the main character in one’s story and being its
heart
. In the end, despite invoking a number of famous people (both real and fictional), the story and its lessons are about and for Rabo Karabekian. A different Rabo, one less sympathetic or more clever, would still be the main character of his own life, but would he make the book enjoyable? Would he be able to pull off the levity that allows Vonnegut to juxtapose war with abstract art? I’m not sure, but I’m glad I don´t have to find out!
Rabo owes this state of grace in part to his artistic struggles and the conflict between his technical mastery and his stillborn passion. He also owes it, however, to the effects of Circe Berman, a widow who shows up on his private beach, invites herself to stay at his place, and slowly transforms his home and his life. Overbearing and irksome, Circe is nevertheless a positive influence on Rabo. I say this knowing full well that if some woman redirected
my
foyer without my permission, I, being the incorrigible 21-year-old that I am, would probably not handle it as well as Rabo does, all things considered! :D The interaction between Rabo and Circe is by far one of the best aspects of
Bluebeard
, because it is rife both with real tension and with real respect between the two parties. This is evident in how Rabo decides to reveal the contents of his potato barn to Circe.
At one point, Rabo has a very frank conversation with his cook and her daughter, Celeste, in which we learn that despite employing her for years, Rabo has never remembered his cook’s name (it’s Allison, Allison White). Indeed, when Rabo kicks out Circe, Allison gives notice, stating that she can’t stand working for him any more without Circe around to improve the atmosphere of the house. It’s not that Rabo is a bad person, but he has fallen out of practice interacting with people as human beings, and Allison accuses him of being “scared to death of women”. Rabo’s relationships with women throughout
Bluebeard
are certainly interesting and rocky. As an adolescent, he forms an attachment to Marilee Kemp, who is eleven years his senior and takes on the role of guardian angel/patron saint, ultimately bringing Rabo to New York to apprentice to Dan Gregory. Rabo eventually loses his virginity to Marilee and then foolishly takes her “you have to leave now” speech at face value, always thinking of her for years but never trying to win her back.
When next they meet, she upbraids him thoroughly for this, and through her Vonnegut has some harsh words to deliver about war and women:
“The whole point of war is to put women everywhere in that condition. It’s always men against women, with the men only pretending to fight among themselves.”
“They can pretend pretty hard sometimes,” I said.
“They know that the ones who pretend the hardest,” she said, “get their pictures in the paper and medals afterwards.”
The “condition” to which Marilee refers is the situation of being desperate for food and protection for themselves and their children. Viewed in this way, war is a mechanism for the oppression of women. The reward for participating in this oppression is glory and power, which is exactly what is promised for participating in colonialism/imperialism as well:
Lecturers traveled all over Northern Europe with such pictures in olden times. With assistants to unroll one end and roll up the other, they urged all ambitious and able persons to abandon tired old Europe and lay claim to rich and beautiful properties in the Promised Land, which were practically theirs for the asking.
Why should a real man stay home when he could be raping a virgin continent?
It’s all very tongue-in-cheek, but there is also a layer of seriousness here, because Vonnegut is both condemning the imperialism of the past (which is easy to do) and criticizing our society for
letting it continue
. We acknowledge the wrongs of the past even as we deny those of the present. I know that, for me personally, we learned about atrocities like the residential schools in Canadian history class, but there was always this subtext that “things are better now”. Well, they are better, in some ways, and maybe in other ways they’re worse too. When you grow up and leave the history classroom for the less comfortable world outside, you realize that nothing is really so simple as the textbook makes it appear. And so I conclude with my single most favourite quotation from
Bluebeard
:
The darkest secret of this country, I am afraid, is that too many of its citizens imagine that they belong to a much higher civilization somewhere else. That higher civilization doesn’t have to be another country. It can be the past instead—the United States as it was before it was spoiled by immigrants and the enfranchisement of the blacks.
This state of mind allows too many of us to lie and cheat and steal from the rest of us, to sell us junk and addictive poisons and corrupting entertainments. What are the rest of us, after all, but sub-human aborigines?
I was born in 1989, so I can’t attest to the zeitgeist Vonnegut was addressing when he wrote
Bluebeard
. Nevertheless, the above quotation certainly captures my mind in 2011. We celebrate—and rightly so—the declarations of human rights, of equality regardless of gender or ethnicity or sports team, the victories we have so far achieved. Yet there is still so much to do, so much inequality to address, not only within countries that lack or struggle with democracy but even in so-called “developed” countries like Canada and the United States. Yes, in 1867 we became an independent dominion, and a parliamentary democracy as well. But it wasn’t until 1918 that women could vote federally. And, I did not know this, but
according to Wikipedia
, prior to 1960, First Nations people had to give up their status in order to vote! So we can be proud of being 144 years old, Canada, but it has been a long, hard road towards equality, and we still aren’t there yet.
But I digress. I digress, because even though
Bluebeard
is a thin book with a light tone, it makes me meditate upon weighty subjects. I have to commend Vonnegut for this, for he has created a book that raises important questions
yet still leaves me curiously uplifted
. With that secret in the potato barn, I feel like Rabo is saying to us, “Come on, people, let’s get our act together: we can do this!” We can remember the past, learn from the past, and avoid repeating its mistakes. But first we must remove the scales from our eyes and sacrifice our illusions to see the world as it is. And this is where I attempt to connect all of this to the motif of abstract art, which thus far I have lamentably neglected. Rabo can draw so realistically that it is scary; he doesn’t exercise this talent, however, because, “it’s just too fucking easy”. And as we see repeatedly throughout
Bluebeard
, depicting the world ultra-realistically is not the same thing as
seeing
it. Sometimes a strip of tape is secretly six deer in a forest glade.
Vonnegut's biting satire comes through with this, his profile of fictional artist Rabo Karabekian. The book spans such events as the Turkish Armenian genocide, World War II, and the post-war climate in New York that gave birth to Abstract-Expressionism.
The genius of Vonnegut is his ability to see the humor in the worst tragedies, all of which he says are born of human folly. The protagonist just wants to live out his last days on his Long Island home but then is convinced by a seductive widow t
Vonnegut's biting satire comes through with this, his profile of fictional artist Rabo Karabekian. The book spans such events as the Turkish Armenian genocide, World War II, and the post-war climate in New York that gave birth to Abstract-Expressionism.
The genius of Vonnegut is his ability to see the humor in the worst tragedies, all of which he says are born of human folly. The protagonist just wants to live out his last days on his Long Island home but then is convinced by a seductive widow to write his own autobiography. Karabekian is the strongest character in the book (the others are not as developed as I would have liked) and through him, Vonnegut's love for art and particularly the Ab-Ex movement come through. An art movement not without its own tragedies for the painters involved. "Survivor guilt" is a theme throughout the book as Karabekian goes back and forth between his own writings and his unfolding uneasy relationship with the Widow. Metaphorically, she represents the shock of the new: a creative jolt he has missed since his second wife's death. The real mystery is whether he will bare his soul to her, along with the secret he keeps locked in his potato barn.
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I would call this the most mature of any of Vonnegut's books that I have read so far. I know that Vonnegut began his novel writing close to the age of 30 which is considered an adult but his work still lacked maturity. Which can be a good thing as his earlier works were meant to be biting satire and not high literature.
Bluebeard is more melancholy and less slapstick than Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions which he is more renowned for. It has a more subtle humour that lends itself t
I would call this the most mature of any of Vonnegut's books that I have read so far. I know that Vonnegut began his novel writing close to the age of 30 which is considered an adult but his work still lacked maturity. Which can be a good thing as his earlier works were meant to be biting satire and not high literature.
Bluebeard is more melancholy and less slapstick than Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions which he is more renowned for. It has a more subtle humour that lends itself to better storytelling. This perspective and style work really well when looking at life through art. I felt I was looking into Vonnegut's heart and mind as I read each page. The medium is different but the message is the same. This really make's McLuhan's
the medium is the message
resonate with me. That's not to say he doesn't take the occasional bite out of how we view the art world. He does, and with relish.
I think I've found a new favourite by Mr. Vonnegut and one I would rather use to introduce people to the real brilliance of his writing.
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I was sad when it ended. I'll miss the wonderful characters Vonnegut
has created. But like all of Vonnegut's books, it's one I hope to revisit many times in the future.
Bluebeard is a fictional autobiography of a cranky old
Armenian modern painter living alone on a beachside estate. His life
is forever changed one day when he meets Circe Berman and is pressured
by her to write his autobiography – Bluebeard. We spend our time with
Rabo Karabekian divided between the present day, and the past. The
I was sad when it ended. I'll miss the wonderful characters Vonnegut
has created. But like all of Vonnegut's books, it's one I hope to revisit many times in the future.
Bluebeard is a fictional autobiography of a cranky old
Armenian modern painter living alone on a beachside estate. His life
is forever changed one day when he meets Circe Berman and is pressured
by her to write his autobiography – Bluebeard. We spend our time with
Rabo Karabekian divided between the present day, and the past. The
hilarity ensures. I read this mostly on a train to and from work, and
must have looked slightly ridiculous with all the times I shut the
book and just laughed.
This is a book that deals with the Armenian
genocide, a man that beats up his wife, suicide, being maimed in World
War II (our protagonist was not born a Cyclops, he tells us on page 1,
he was deprived of his eye while commanding a platoon of Army
Engineers), and about the desolation a man feels as he looks back at
all his failures in his life. All this, and the book was laugh out
loud funny, never felt too heavy, and concluded so triumphantly and
hopeful, that it got me slightly (very slightly!) teary eyed. Only
Vonnegut.
Vonnegut has a rare gift I don’t think I’ve ever come across. He just
makes writing look so damn easy. He writes as if he was speaking to a
small child, but it is never ever condescending. It just flows with
such ease, elegance, and efficiency.
The plot of the book isn’t really important. This is a prime example
of substance over form. I’ve read and reread many of Vonnegut’s books
and to this day, if you pinned me down and asked me to recall for you
the plot of Breakfast of Champions or of The Sirens of Titan, I would
fail miserably. You don’t read Vonnegut for plots, you read his work
because of that wonderful dark humor- that voice that cries out about
the absurdity of it all. That being said, I think this would be a
great first book for those not familiar with Vonnegut. It’s probably
the most straight forward Vonnegut novel that I’ve read so far; no
zany aliens or time travel.
The absurdity of war is a note that Vonnegut loves to play. Also, his
disdain for the male sex in general:
"After all that men have done to the women and children and every
other defenseless thing on this planet, it is time that not just every
painting, but every piece of music, every statue, every play, ever
poem and every book a man creates, should say only this: "We are much
too horrible for this nice place. We give up. We quit. The end!"
Being a modern painter, Karobekian recalls his years as a struggling
artist. Having been struggling musician myself, a lot of what Vonnegut
writes about rings a bell of truth for me.
"A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a
thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of
work, since modern communications put him or her into daily
competition with the world's champions. The entire planet can get
along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area
of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her
gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets
drunk at a wedding and tap dances on the coffee table like Fred
Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him
or her an "exhibitionist."
How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her next
morning. "Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!"
But for such a seemingly light and fun read, his message is
surprisingly deep. Not to simplify things, but war really is absurd,
and the media has done a disservice by glorifying it (although this is
a trend seen less and less with more “realistic” portrayals of war
such as Saving Private Ryan and Born on the Fourth of July). I’ll
conclude this with a final quote from Bluebeard's 245th page:
"All the returning veterans in the movies are our age or older," he
said. That was true. In the movies you seldom saw the babies who had
done most of the heavy fighting on the ground in the war.
"Yes- "I said, "and most of the actors in the movies never even went
to war. They came home to the wife and kids and swimming pool after
every grueling day in front of the cameras, after firing off blank
cartridges while men all around them were spitting catsup."
"That's what the young people will think our war was fifty years from
now," said Kitchen, "old men and blanks and catsup." So they would .
So they do.
"Because of the movies," he predicted, "nobody will believe that it
was babies who fought the war."
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I was lured to this book by Breakfast of Champions, a Vonnegut book that I loved. But sadly I was disappointed. I wanted Vonnegut’s classic writing style; his unpredictable qualms, his interrogative view of the world and his illuminating illustrations. Instead, I received none of that. Bluebeard is unusual in comparison to his other books. Its critiques on the world and human life are blatant and deliberate, rather than his usual subtle remarks. The main character, Rabo Karabekian, is a widowed
I was lured to this book by Breakfast of Champions, a Vonnegut book that I loved. But sadly I was disappointed. I wanted Vonnegut’s classic writing style; his unpredictable qualms, his interrogative view of the world and his illuminating illustrations. Instead, I received none of that. Bluebeard is unusual in comparison to his other books. Its critiques on the world and human life are blatant and deliberate, rather than his usual subtle remarks. The main character, Rabo Karabekian, is a widowed former painter who is writing as an autobiography. (Vonnegut goes so far to make the book Rabo’s, that he credits a fictional character in the dedication). Rabo is a sad character. He lives in a mansion that belonged to his deceased second wife, his only companions are the cook and her daughter (who don’t for the old man much) and crippled war veteran. Rabo himself is missing an eye. When a bossy, mysterious writer invites herself into his mansion, Rabo opens up about his life, his art and his sadness. For me, the story was slow moving, and plodding until the reader discovers the secret in the barn. This saved the book. While the Rabo’s memoirs are completely boring, the suspense Vonnegut builds for Rabo’s secret is well constructed. In all, it was a quick read but it didn’t satisfy its full potential.
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More Vonnegut...I really liked this one. Some of the smartest commentary on modern art (well, sort of modern -- the abstract expressionists) and just being human via art...Ah, I'm not doing this justice. It's grumpy and the ending is a little implausible (the final masterpiece sounds pretty cool the way a World War II diorama of infinite detail is cool...I like that sort of stuff, but I find it hard to consider it sublime, exactly). I miss Kurt Vonnegut.
Sarcastic and haunted by what he has experienced. This is Vonnegut at his best.
Slaughterhouse-Five
is still my all-time favorite because of its science fiction element, but this is just as effective in combining pain with humor. After reading it, it seems odd to me that this book isn't one of his more popular. For me, it was a much more enjoyable read than
Breakfast of Champions
and
Galápagos
, which came off as a little too over-the-top. If you loved Slaughterhouse-Five but couldn't find anothe
Sarcastic and haunted by what he has experienced. This is Vonnegut at his best.
Slaughterhouse-Five
is still my all-time favorite because of its science fiction element, but this is just as effective in combining pain with humor. After reading it, it seems odd to me that this book isn't one of his more popular. For me, it was a much more enjoyable read than
Breakfast of Champions
and
Galápagos
, which came off as a little too over-the-top. If you loved Slaughterhouse-Five but couldn't find another Vonnegut book that you enjoyed as much, give this one a shot.
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Another interesting Vonnegut book. He covers the usual gamet of Vonnegut trademarks - WWII, a reactive protagonist (as opposed to proactive) how art can be quite useless etc... The book is filled with great quotes and many thought provoking ideas. It's not one of his most famous books partially because (in my opinion) it has so many cross over themes from his other novels. He's talked about some of these themes before but comes at them from a different angle in Bluebeard. A very brilliant writer
Another interesting Vonnegut book. He covers the usual gamet of Vonnegut trademarks - WWII, a reactive protagonist (as opposed to proactive) how art can be quite useless etc... The book is filled with great quotes and many thought provoking ideas. It's not one of his most famous books partially because (in my opinion) it has so many cross over themes from his other novels. He's talked about some of these themes before but comes at them from a different angle in Bluebeard. A very brilliant writer and one of my all time favorites. No one had his unique sense of humor and no one ever will. Kurt wondered when mankind will ever see the senseless of war. As he said, maybe it's time to give women a chance.
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Dry , detailed and perceptive about artmaking, realism, abstraction and meaning. Starts light and flippant, quickly gets deep and makes you really ponder. Any practicing artist should get their head around this novel. Is the artist's mentor meant to be Rockwell? Not sure...welcome to a reimagined 1950s art scene.
Talking about this book is a complicated thing. Humans are complicated things, and this book is, as many others by Kurt Vonnegut, exactly about said complicated things. Note the plural.
Rabo Karabekian is a painter. Some might call him a fraud. He is the child of a genocide and a victim of the war. He is also writing his memoir... Or is it a diary? It might just become one if the widow Circe Berman's interruptions keep their pace; Rabo settles on it being both.
And it's both a memoir and a diary w
Talking about this book is a complicated thing. Humans are complicated things, and this book is, as many others by Kurt Vonnegut, exactly about said complicated things. Note the plural.
Rabo Karabekian is a painter. Some might call him a fraud. He is the child of a genocide and a victim of the war. He is also writing his memoir... Or is it a diary? It might just become one if the widow Circe Berman's interruptions keep their pace; Rabo settles on it being both.
And it's both a memoir and a diary we get, jumping from the past to the present and from the present to the past, as Vonnegut often does. It's a story about injustice and grief, about what art truly is, about getting old. It may even be about what true love and happiness are, but does any of us really understand what those are about?
ο ράμπο καραμπεκιάν είναι ένας αρμενικής καταγωγής βετεράνος του β' παγκοσμίου πολέμου και πρώην ζωγράφος του κινήματος του αφηρημένου εξπρεσιονισμού, ο οποίος μετά τον θάνατο της δεύτερης συζύγου του φαίνεται να έχει αφεθεί στο έλεος του χρόνου και στη φθορά που αυτός φέρνει.
η μονότονη καθημερινότητά του θα αλλάξει όταν η μυστηριώδης κίρκη μπέρμαν μπει στη ζωή του και τον αναγκάσει να γράψει με το ζόρι την αυτοβιογραφία του (το βιβλίο που διαβάζουμε).
έτσι, διαβάζουμε για την γενοκτονία των αρμε
ο ράμπο καραμπεκιάν είναι ένας αρμενικής καταγωγής βετεράνος του β' παγκοσμίου πολέμου και πρώην ζωγράφος του κινήματος του αφηρημένου εξπρεσιονισμού, ο οποίος μετά τον θάνατο της δεύτερης συζύγου του φαίνεται να έχει αφεθεί στο έλεος του χρόνου και στη φθορά που αυτός φέρνει.
η μονότονη καθημερινότητά του θα αλλάξει όταν η μυστηριώδης κίρκη μπέρμαν μπει στη ζωή του και τον αναγκάσει να γράψει με το ζόρι την αυτοβιογραφία του (το βιβλίο που διαβάζουμε).
έτσι, διαβάζουμε για την γενοκτονία των αρμενίων που οδήγησε τους γονείς του ράμπο καραμπεκιάν στις ηνωμένες πολιτείες, τις προσπάθειές του για καλλιτεχνική αναγνώριση την περίοδο της οικονομικής κρίσης του '30, τις εμπειρίες του κατά τον β' παγκόσμιο πόλεμο καθώς και για τους δύο γάμους του.
ο κερτ βόνεγκατ είναι απολαυστικότατος. γράφει στρωτά και άμεσα σχολιάζοντας όλα τα παραπάνω θέματα με ευαισθησία αλλά και ειρωνία χωρίς ίχνος διδακτισμού. το χιούμορ του κάποιες φορές έχει κάτι το μελαγχολικό και πικρό, όμως πάνω απ' όλα έχει μια ανθρωπιά που σε κάνει να νιώθεις λίγο καλύτερα μετά την ανάγνωση. ακόμη και όταν ολόκληρο το σύμπαν είναι ''Γαμημένο Πέραν Πάσης Αναγνωρίσεως''.
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I'm not sure how it happens...but some books become classics, while other books become forgotten. This is often the case among even the most famous of authors, who become known mostly for one or two books, while the majority of their work is unread, even though the quality of the forgotten work is sometimes quite high. In Kurt Vonnegut's case, most people know of "Cat's Cradle" or "Slaughterhouse Five," perhaps also "Breakfast of Champions," but they are unfamiliar with the rest of his work. It'
I'm not sure how it happens...but some books become classics, while other books become forgotten. This is often the case among even the most famous of authors, who become known mostly for one or two books, while the majority of their work is unread, even though the quality of the forgotten work is sometimes quite high. In Kurt Vonnegut's case, most people know of "Cat's Cradle" or "Slaughterhouse Five," perhaps also "Breakfast of Champions," but they are unfamiliar with the rest of his work. It's a shame because he wrote many terrific short stories, essays, and novels besides the three I've mentioned.
One of my personal favorites, which I'd rank with the three I've mentioned and "Jailbird" as his best, is "Bluebeard." I read this book nearly twenty years ago, so my memory of it is a bit hazy now, but I'll summarize it very briefly here. It's the story of Rabo Karabekian, a (fictional) abstract expressionist painter who was a minor character in the earlier "Breakfast of Champions." He spends most of this book looking back on his life.
I found this book to be a bit "warmer" than most of Vonnegut's other books. It's also filled with the same wry humor, absurdity, hope, and hopelessness that you'll find in most other Vonnegut tales. It even has a bit of a mystery in it.
I re-read this every couple of years and am always surprised to remember how many of the things that I think or believe are lifted directly from this book. Also, I think about 2/3s of the "Kurt Vonnegut said..." things that I go on about are also from this one novel (The others are mostly from "God Bless You Mr. Rosewater"). There are so many great bits about art and loneliness and Life and Everything. Realism v. Abstract Impressionism and Is It Art? 'Flensing' your enemies in order to forgive t
I re-read this every couple of years and am always surprised to remember how many of the things that I think or believe are lifted directly from this book. Also, I think about 2/3s of the "Kurt Vonnegut said..." things that I go on about are also from this one novel (The others are mostly from "God Bless You Mr. Rosewater"). There are so many great bits about art and loneliness and Life and Everything. Realism v. Abstract Impressionism and Is It Art? 'Flensing' your enemies in order to forgive them. Anti-epiphanies. The list goes on and on.
Last time I tried re-reading this, I made the unhappy mistake of leaving it at a coffee shop about a quarter of the way from the ending, so it had been a while since I'd read it through. This wound up being kind of lucky, as I'd forgotten the last line, which is one of my favorites in all of fiction. My face about cracked open with light spilling out of it when I got to it this time.
I know Vonnegut gets criticized for being preachy, and he is (I really want to add a second 'He is!' right here, which is a stylistic device that I've also lifted from this book to use in my own writing a couple of times. Another surprise.), but he has so many amazing things to say and ways of saying them. It's difficult to mind a bit of heavy handedness with the message when you feel like the writer is telling the real truth.
(If my Vonnegut fanaticism hasn't come through yet, believe me. It exists and might be influencing anything I say here.)
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Recommends it for:
Kurt Vonnegut fans, abstract expressionists, fans of abstract expressionism
This book is about Rabo Karabekian, failed abstract expressionist painter, father, but decent soldier.
The story is half memoir, half diary of the time period where the main character is writing is his memoir. Thus it provides a more natural jumping around in time than other Vonnegut books, like Slaughter House 5. The story, told in different times comes together quite well, as the character develops nicely.
As per standard this is written with Vonnegut's simple and easy to read, yet sophisticate
This book is about Rabo Karabekian, failed abstract expressionist painter, father, but decent soldier.
The story is half memoir, half diary of the time period where the main character is writing is his memoir. Thus it provides a more natural jumping around in time than other Vonnegut books, like Slaughter House 5. The story, told in different times comes together quite well, as the character develops nicely.
As per standard this is written with Vonnegut's simple and easy to read, yet sophisticated style. As far as Vonnegut stories go this has the least amount of science fiction or fantastic elements. Yet at the same time, it relies heavily on WWII for material and substance as much of Vonnegut's other literature did.
I read this book because it was in a pile of books an extended family member was throwing away. This is a Vonnegut book I hadn't read so I grabbed it.
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This is the third book by Vonnegut that I've read (fourth if you count Man Without a Country), and it seems like every book I read by him makes me want to read more of his work.
I don't know that I can accurately describe what makes this so interesting (just like Rabo Karebekian can't or won't describe for most of the novel what he's keeping in the padlocked potato barn), but I know that I didn't want to put it down. I could feel that the plot was slowly, subtly, taking us to a specific destinati
This is the third book by Vonnegut that I've read (fourth if you count Man Without a Country), and it seems like every book I read by him makes me want to read more of his work.
I don't know that I can accurately describe what makes this so interesting (just like Rabo Karebekian can't or won't describe for most of the novel what he's keeping in the padlocked potato barn), but I know that I didn't want to put it down. I could feel that the plot was slowly, subtly, taking us to a specific destination and the last few chapters provides a catharsis for reader and narrator alike, though not in a way that I expected.
For anyone interested in the arts, or critical of them and their place-- or really anyone who likes a novel that will lurk around your brain days after you finish reading it, I highly recommend Bluebeard.
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Ισως φταίει η ζέστη, ίσως φταίει η επικαιρότητα, ίσως που τα ερωτήματα που απασχολούν τον Βόνεγκατ σε αυτό το έργο νομίζω πως τα έχω προς το παρόν τουλάχιστον λυμένα, δεν το απόλαυσα όσο περίμενα.
Αυτό βεβαίως δεν σημαίνει ότι δεν είναι αξιοδιάβαστο, κάθε άλλο.
Recommends it for:
Anyone who is into art or Vonnegut
Vonnegut’s views of art and artists expressed through a fictional character.
I’ll avoid my standard cheerleading stance for Vonnegut’s work and focus on the great explanation of an art’s life. We see the world through the character, and he sees all of life’s experiences are seen through the lens of art. Anything of importance or significance is relative to his passion. Even his sex life is ruled by his need to paint. On a number of occasions the story itself loses momentum, though it never grind
Vonnegut’s views of art and artists expressed through a fictional character.
I’ll avoid my standard cheerleading stance for Vonnegut’s work and focus on the great explanation of an art’s life. We see the world through the character, and he sees all of life’s experiences are seen through the lens of art. Anything of importance or significance is relative to his passion. Even his sex life is ruled by his need to paint. On a number of occasions the story itself loses momentum, though it never grinds to a halt. I’d recommend this book to anyone thinking of getting into Vonnegut. The reader will find a unique insight into the author, which will help while reading other books.
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Vonnegut's books are hard to summarise as the usual elements are always present and eminently sum-up-able: good-natured satire, moving stories-within-stories, shabby protags who inherit and lose fortunes as naturally as TV remotes, strong women always at the centre of life's mayhem, the ghost of WWII past.
This one hits at the same highs as his other eighties novels,
Deadeye Dick
and
Galápagos
, and deserves more attention.
Although not one of his most popular novels, this is one of my favorites. Vonnegut combines humor and pathos within a gentle satire in this reflection about war and human destructiveness. To Vonnegut, we're all not far removed from our childhoods and their insecurities, but now we no longer have kind parents to protect us and to appear to answer our questions.
Whether Vonnegut knew of the CIA's funding of abstract expressionism is unknown to me. If not, he anticipates their latterly revealed moti
Although not one of his most popular novels, this is one of my favorites. Vonnegut combines humor and pathos within a gentle satire in this reflection about war and human destructiveness. To Vonnegut, we're all not far removed from our childhoods and their insecurities, but now we no longer have kind parents to protect us and to appear to answer our questions.
Whether Vonnegut knew of the CIA's funding of abstract expressionism is unknown to me. If not, he anticipates their latterly revealed motives.
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Когато започваш нова книга на Кърт Вонегът, сигурно е единствено, че не знаеш какво те очаква. И никакви анотации, блърбове или откъси не могат да променят това. От друга страна, Кърт Вонегът винаги поставя “ключовете” за историите си преди началото. И преди началото на “Синята брада” има бележка от автора, която започва с думите “Тази книга е роман и едновременно с това иронична автобиография” и завършва с епиграф, показателен за всичко, което Вонегът някога е написал:
„Ние трябва да си помагаме
Когато започваш нова книга на Кърт Вонегът, сигурно е единствено, че не знаеш какво те очаква. И никакви анотации, блърбове или откъси не могат да променят това. От друга страна, Кърт Вонегът винаги поставя “ключовете” за историите си преди началото. И преди началото на “Синята брада” има бележка от автора, която започва с думите “Тази книга е роман и едновременно с това иронична автобиография” и завършва с епиграф, показателен за всичко, което Вонегът някога е написал:
„Ние трябва да си помагаме да преодолеем това нещо, каквото и да е то.“
Допитах се до няколко познати дали са чели Кърт Вонегът и когато потресен срещнах отрицателните им отговори, прецених, че ще е удобно да поставя някакъв увод, все пак. За незапознатите, стилът на самобитния гений от Индианополис е може би най-важната съставка от майсторството му. Или пък са идеите и дълбоко вкоренения в тях хуманизъм. Възможно е някои да намират за най-привлекателно чувството му за хумор, способността му да открива смешното в най-трагични моменти, като просто премества камерата в отсрещния ъгъл, обикновено показвайки задника на човешката душа, а също и несравнимото му усещане за тънките неща от живота. Тънки, например, като изобразителното изкуство, което е едно от средоточията в “Синята брада”.
Рабо Карабекян е застаряващ самотник, един от най-известните, признати и умели представители на течението, познато като “абстрактен експресионизъм и, разбира се, дърт пръдльо. Човекът, оглавил трудно за произнасяне име, притежава хамбар за картофи, където “Няма и автопортрет. Няма никакви послания с религиозна насоченост… онова, което се намира там, е по-голямо от кутия за хляб и по-малко от планетата Юпитер”. Това е и неговата тайна (защото е противопоказно интелигентен човек да си няма тайна), която той разкрива едва в края на историята си, а аз въобще няма да споменавам.
Рабо не понася младите, които, по всичко личи, не се интересуват от нищо, което не е излъчвано по телевизията през последната седмица, затова и редовно възпроизвежда (не)известни исторически събития, често пъти акцентирайки върху едно или присмивайки се на друго. Тъкмо в тази конотация изпъква споменатото вече умело и обрано писане на Вонегът. Разказвайки за събитие в две изречения или параграф, писателят едновременно постига удивително четивен текст и залага въпроси, впечатляващи в своята мащабност:
На по-младите читатели, ако има такива, разбира се, бих обяснил, че Втората световна война съдържаше в себе си много от мечтаните качества на Армагедон — последната война между Доброто и Злото. След нея ни очакваха само чудеса. Нескафето беше едно от тях, ДДТ — друго. То трябваше да изтреби всички буболечки и почти успя. Атомната енергия трябваше да свали цената на електричеството до такава степен, че електромерите да станат излишни. Тя трябваше да направи немислима и всяка нова война. По-добре да говорим за хляб и риба. Антибиотиците ще видят сметката на всички болести. Лазар няма да умре! Как ви се струва това последното като част от опитите да се превърне в отживелица възкресението на Сина Божи?
Съществена част от удоволствието в романите на Вонегът е самоиронията, отчетливата му способност никога да не се взема на сериозно. За каквото и да било.
След всичко, което мъжете са сторили на жените, децата и всички останали беззащитни същества на тази земя, мисля че е крайно време не само под техните картини, но и под всяка скулптура, пиеса, поема или книга, създадена от мъж, да се постави следния надпис: „Ние сме твърде ужасни за този хубав божи свят! Предаваме се! Отиваме си! Край!“
Войната, изиграла повратна роля в живота на Кърт Вонегът, неизменно е основна тема в историите му и почти всяка препратка и спомен на възрастния Карабекян са чисто злато, но тук ще цитирам само един момент:
— На кино всички ветерани, завръщащи се от фронта, са на наша възраст, пък и по-стари — отвърна Тери. Това беше истина. На кино човек никога не вижда невръстните хлапета, които изнасят на плещите си най-тежките сражения.
— Така е — рекох. — А повечето актьори дори и не са помирисвали фронт. Прибират се у дома при жените и децата си край плувните басейни. Денят им е преминал в тежки битки пред камерите, изгърмели са купища халосни патрони и са натръшкали още по-големи купища сплескани с кетчуп „противници“.
— След петдесет години младите ще си представят нашата война именно така — кимна Кичън. — Старци, халосни патрони и кетчуп.
Точно така и стана.
— Благодарение на киното никой няма да вярва, че войната е била изнесена от невръстни хлапаци — предрече той.
Едва ли би представлявало трудна задача да пиша и цитирам с дни. Четенето на Вонегът е своеобразна консистенция от чистосърдечно забавление, последователно зареждане с идеи и вдъхновение, отделни моменти на затишие и умопомрачение. Тъкмо тази консистенция го превръща в забележителен писател и (по мое мнение) страхотен учител по писане (не само творческо). Това е то!
Очевидно дарбата да рисувам по-добре от повечето хора си я имам по рождение — точно както вдовицата Бърман и Пол Слейзингър по рождение си имат дарбата да разказват разни истории по-добре от другите. Не са малко хората с вродена дарба — певци, танцьори, астролози, фокусници, велики предводители, спортисти и прочие.
Мисля, че корените на това явление се крият в древността, когато хората си живеели на малки групи, съставени предимно от близки роднини. Петдесетина, най-много сто души. А еволюцията, Господ или онези неизвестни сили, които направляват генетиката, са се погрижили за останалото — малките човешки общности са оцелели и Сред тях неизменно е имало някой, който да ги забавлява — разказвач на увлекателни истории край огъня, рисувач на картини по стените на пещерата, безстрашен главатар и прочие.
Така мисля. Разбира се днес тези неща са лишени от всякакъв смисъл, просто защото умерената дарба е напълно обезценена от пресата, радиото, телевизията, спътниците и тем подобни измишльотини, които наричаме технически прогрес. Един умерено надарен човек, който преди хиляда години положително би бил истинско съкровище за своето племе, днес е принуден да си търси друга работа, само защото съвременните комуникации по неволя го карат да се състезава със световните шампиони. При това всеки ден и всеки час.
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Bluebeard was my first Vonnegut novel. It was fantastic. It was incredibly hilarious, entertaining, and philosophical. If Bluebeard is
this good,
I can only imagine what Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of the Champions would be like. In reading this fictionalized autobiography of one Rabo Karabekian, I can remember what one Richard Harrow said about fiction:
"It occured to me: the basis of fiction is that people have some sort of connection with each other. But they don't."
Whether what Richard
Bluebeard was my first Vonnegut novel. It was fantastic. It was incredibly hilarious, entertaining, and philosophical. If Bluebeard is
this good,
I can only imagine what Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of the Champions would be like. In reading this fictionalized autobiography of one Rabo Karabekian, I can remember what one Richard Harrow said about fiction:
"It occured to me: the basis of fiction is that people have some sort of connection with each other. But they don't."
Whether what Richard meant for connection is emotional or simply same shared ideas, or something more concrete like people who really mutually know each other and have encountered each other throughout the span of their life, it all means the same thing. I'm just putting that out there.
Also can we talk about how ABSOLUTELY MAGNIFICENT Circe Berman was? She's a feat to behold. She was one of the specific things I loved most in the novel. Just her introduction alone was priceless. I can only hope to write or create a fictional character as COOL, flawed and tragic as Circe Berman.
Also, the art philosophies, Dan Gregory, Kitchen and Rabo himself was a really good read (heh). Their comparisons, contrasts, symbolism (whatever) that they represent was mind-boggling and one I haven't really encountered before because people usually shy away from that kind of dimension in writing about art. Rabo's constant yearning for FAMILY is also one side of a whole thing I haven't thought of before. Reading King Lear by Shakespeare I always thought of how family was some kind of social construct, but Rabo's almost-obsession with wanting to be part of a family (always a large one) was almost heartbreaking. It shows you that to be what you are now, you really do have to be born into a group who identifies with you, who takes care of you and who accepts you. I don't think Rabo actually had that, and he never really did -- only pale imitations of it. A fantastic book. I wonder why it isn't notably mentioned as one of Vonnegut's most famous work.
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Vonnegut has been one of my very favorites since I stumbled across
Harrison Bergeron
at USU. I love how he's funny and dark and is great at pointing out the craziness of mankind. Bluebeard says "Now it's the women's turn." I wish he wrote more books so I won't run out.
3,5. Vonnegucie, stary szarlatanie, ja już Cię przejrzałam i wyczuwam zdania i słowa kolejne. Nie przeszkadza mi to, dopóty jeszcze sprawiasz, że zaśmiewam się głośno.
Paul Slazinger pojechał do Polski, jakby nie miał dokąd.
Rabo Karabekian is an artist aging alone in a big house full of modern art. Then one day he finds Circe Berman, a young widow, on his private beach. She urges him to write an autobiography about his life, invites herself to live in his house, and starts asking questions about the locked potato barn on his property. Herein, Rabo unravels his life story and eventually comes to face that barn himself.
My Thoughts
Vonnegut doesn’t write bad books. I’ve come to believe that wholeheartedly. I
The Basics
Rabo Karabekian is an artist aging alone in a big house full of modern art. Then one day he finds Circe Berman, a young widow, on his private beach. She urges him to write an autobiography about his life, invites herself to live in his house, and starts asking questions about the locked potato barn on his property. Herein, Rabo unravels his life story and eventually comes to face that barn himself.
My Thoughts
Vonnegut doesn’t write bad books. I’ve come to believe that wholeheartedly. I do think sometimes he writes books that aren’t for everyone though, and while I enjoyed this book, there were things that left me wishing for better.
Let me start with Circe Berman. While this wasn’t really a trope when it was written, she smacks of Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She sweeps into Rabo’s life to change it for the better while struggling to be a character herself. It wasn’t until the end that I felt she had really become something besides a catalyst for Rabo, but even that felt weak. Not to mention that when Rabo’s irritation with her built, so did mine, so I struggled to both understand and like her. It didn’t break the book for me, but it was a hurdle.
I also think, and this is my problem more than it is Vonnegut’s, that this book wasn’t strange enough. For someone that’s really known for delivering oddities with a smirk, this didn’t have much of that at all. That’s not to say it wasn’t odd in its way, but the oddness was still within the walls of contemporary literature. I adjusted to it and enjoyed the book, but I think this is a sign of the sort of reputation Vonnegut made for himself as a writer of the wonderfully weird and how hard it was for him to break out.
That said, it was still a wonderful book with all that Vonnegut charm. Vonnegut attempts here to chart his way through the waters of modern art, to talk equally about what someone could see in it and what people may be incapable of seeing in it, and much of that is insightful and hilarious. He talks about war in that way that is unique entirely to him. He tells Rabo’s story the way a man facing his past might: in anecdotes, turning to look at memories only when he is prepared for them, and it works.
I always feel personally rewarded when I read Vonnegut, and this was no exception.
I simply love Vonnegut's quirkiness and wonderful fantasy. His characters are just so unreal and satirical, yet so real and illuminative(?) into today's society. Vonnegut has the capacity to be ironic in such a subtle way (or at least I think it is irony). Like, for instance, when he, through the character, points out how much people are willing to pay for what is child's play - paint on paper, running, kicking and so on. At the same time, I got moved when readin Bluebeard. There is the seriousn
I simply love Vonnegut's quirkiness and wonderful fantasy. His characters are just so unreal and satirical, yet so real and illuminative(?) into today's society. Vonnegut has the capacity to be ironic in such a subtle way (or at least I think it is irony). Like, for instance, when he, through the character, points out how much people are willing to pay for what is child's play - paint on paper, running, kicking and so on. At the same time, I got moved when readin Bluebeard. There is the seriousness that these type of books really need. The history of the Karabekian family and then the thing in the barn (don't want to spoil what it is) really is moving on a deep level. Male vanity and serious existential questions weaved into one.
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This is my second favorite of Vonnegut's books, after
Slaughterhouse Five
, which is as magnum an opus as anyone ever produced. Though I have not conducted a scientific, statistically significant poll, or even an unscientific, statistically insignificant one, I'm pretty sure most people would rate
Slaughterhouse Five
at number one.
Few pick this as number two.
Cat's Cradle
is the most often cited second-best work.
Mother Night
gets much deserved praise. But
Bluebeard
will always hold a specia
This is my second favorite of Vonnegut's books, after
Slaughterhouse Five
, which is as magnum an opus as anyone ever produced. Though I have not conducted a scientific, statistically significant poll, or even an unscientific, statistically insignificant one, I'm pretty sure most people would rate
Slaughterhouse Five
at number one.
Few pick this as number two.
Cat's Cradle
is the most often cited second-best work.
Mother Night
gets much deserved praise. But
Bluebeard
will always hold a special place in my heart for reinforcing what I always suspected to be true but was too afraid to say: Mark Rothko just painted big colored rectangles and Jackson Pollack just splashed paint around like polychromatic vomit.
You can disagree with me. Heck, most people do, eventually, about something or other. You are entitled to your opinion and I am entitled to mine, and I agree with Vonnegut on this: art that is about nothing but itself is about nothing.
Vonnegut passed away in 2007. May he rest in peace. So it goes. But he had more influence on my own creative expression than anyone who ever lived. And I'm certain that his work will carry on inspiring generations to come for centuries. Unlike Sateen Dura-Luxe, I have no doubt that his works will outlast the smile on the Mona Lisa.
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Kurt Vonnegut, Junior was an American novelist, satirist, and most recently, graphic artist. He was recognized as New York State Author for 2001-2003.
He was born in Indianapolis, later the setting for many of his novels. He attended Cornell University from 1941 to 1943, where he wrote a column for the student newspaper, the Cornell Daily Sun. Vonnegut trained as a chemist and worked as a journali
Kurt Vonnegut, Junior was an American novelist, satirist, and most recently, graphic artist. He was recognized as New York State Author for 2001-2003.
He was born in Indianapolis, later the setting for many of his novels. He attended Cornell University from 1941 to 1943, where he wrote a column for the student newspaper, the Cornell Daily Sun. Vonnegut trained as a chemist and worked as a journalist before joining the U.S. Army and serving in World War II.
After the war, he attended University of Chicago as a graduate student in anthropology and also worked as a police reporter at the City News Bureau of Chicago. He left Chicago to work in Schenectady, New York in public relations for General Electric. He attributed his unadorned writing style to his reporting work.
His experiences as an advance scout in the Battle of the Bulge, and in particular his witnessing of the bombing of Dresden, Germany whilst a prisoner of war, would inform much of his work. This event would also form the core of his most famous work, Slaughterhouse-Five, the book which would make him a millionaire. This acerbic 200-page book is what most people mean when they describe a work as "Vonnegutian" in scope.
Vonnegut was a self-proclaimed humanist and socialist (influenced by the style of Indiana's own Eugene V. Debs) and a lifelong supporter of the American Civil Liberties Union.
The novelist is known for works blending satire, black comedy and science fiction, such as Slaughterhouse-Five (1969), Cat's Cradle (1963), and Breakfast of Champions (1973)
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