A man without a country

It would be nice to be able to say that with A Man Without A Country, Vonnegut went out on a high note.

It wouldn't be true, though.

I'm not even exactly sure what to call this; it's certainly not a novel, it's not really non-fiction... "pamphlet" just about covers it, I guess. Either that or "rant." Because that's what he does; he rants. At 82 years old, Vonnegut was pissed off and it's heartbreaking to hear a man who's always described himself as a humanist and tried to find some good in people even in the most sinister, dark moments, declare openly that he has irrevocably lost faith in mankind. It's not surprising that he is unhappy with the way things are, but his trademark humour and wit tends to take a backseat to crushing pessimism. Is he right to be this pessimistic about us? Quite possibly, and it's not like he hasn't earned the right when you read this in the light of everything else he's written (and that's how the book should be read; I shudder to think what people will make of Vonnegut if this is their first exposure to him). But still.

A Man Without A Country veers back and forth between subjects, which he gets away with since he has things to say on most of them (on how to tell a story, on his outlook on life, on politics etc) even though it gives a slightly scattershot impression. Sometimes he's incredibly poignant, sometimes he's as funny as ever, sometimes he's just brash. (Though I confess that I can't help but crack up when he writes that he's going to sue the tobacco manufacturers for not giving him cancer like they promised, since he never wanted to live long enough to see the world run by "Bush, Dick and Colon".)

I suppose the worst and best part about it is the consistency. Having re-read a few Vonnegut novels since his death, there's really not much new stuff to find here (in fact, large portions of it seem cribbed from the foreword to Jailbird). There's a new president, Kurt is older and crankier, there's some fancy new thing called the Internet which he really doesn't like much (he proudly proclaims himself a luddite), but otherwise he's still pushing the same buttons that he has been for decades only with more bitterness. "Here's what we could have been," he seems to say (namechecking both Marx, Lincoln and Jesus), "and we wasted it all." A Man Without A Country doesn't add anything new, and as much irreverent fun as it is at times, it seems more like petering out than going out with a bang.