Breakfast of Champignons


Now It Can Be Told, Thank God

So I finished reading this novel soon after I arrived at my hotel, and I thought I’d better write a review while it was still fresh in my mind. But, first, I decided to go down to the cocktail lounge for a drink. All the seats at the bar were taken, so I had to sit by myself at a table for four.

The waitress took my order. A dry martini. When she returned, she placed it before me and said, “Here it is. The breakfast of champions!”

I sucked on the lemon rind, and discarded it in the ashtray. Then somebody came up and asked, “Do you mind if I join you?” He introduced himself as Kilgore Trout. I recognised his name as one of the writers who was appearing at the Arts Festival.

We had barely started a conversation, when another man came up and sat down. At first, he paid no attention to me. He looked at Kilgore Trout and said, “Mr. Trout, I love you.”

Trout looked at him and asked, “Why, thank you. And who might you be?”

He said he was Kurt Vonnegut, the author. Coincidentally, he was the writer of the book I'd just finished reading. I didn’t recall seeing his name on the program. In fact, I had a vague recollection that he might have died. Or had he won the Nobel Prize? Or both? I couldn’t remember. All that mattered to me was that he was alive when he wrote this book. Or somebody was.

Trout didn’t seem to recognise Vonnegut. “What have you written?”

“Well, for one,” Vonnegut replied, “you could say I wrote you...but whether or not you actually do, is another matter.”

Trout simply looked back at him, puzzled. Though it didn't seem to bother him that he might have been created by an author.

“I'm sorry I made you suffer a lot. Now I want you to feel a wholeness and inner harmony such as I have never allowed you to feel before.”

"Okay, then. Good."

Trout finished his drink, and disappeared, ostensibly of his own accord, hopefully whole and harmonious, leaving me with Vonnegut.

“Thank God you’re here. The word is you're quite a character! By the way...where is your creator? Hasn’t he arrived yet? I thought you two would be inseparable.”

I laughed as nonchalantly as I could. I sipped my martini, trying to think of something witty to say. I had no idea what he was talking about.

I could go on and on with the intimate details of our conversation, but what good is more information?

You already know enough about human beings. And so on, etc. You don’t need to read a novel or a review from me.

Then, he said, “Some persons seem to like you, and others seem to hate you, and you must wonder why. They are simply liking machines and hating machines.”

I had never heard anybody make a comment like that before. But I couldn’t argue with him. It sounded right.

“You,” he continued, “are an experiment by the Creator of the Universe.”

I wanted to laugh again, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

“You are the only creature in the entire Universe who has free will.”

“What about you?” I enquired. “You’re a writer.”

He shook his head and got up. “Not any longer. Would you like another martini?” I nodded.

I never saw him again, nor my drink.

Somebody else sat in his seat.

I looked at my watch. It was time I went. “Are you going to the show tonight?” I asked.

“The big show is in my head,” he said.

What did he mean by that? It sounded impressive. I tried to imagine what it must be like inside his head. I tried to look at things from his perspective. Perhaps I tried a little too hard, for the next time I looked at our table, neither one of us was there.




Breakfast of Champions

I first read this over thirty years ago. Vonnegut is one of my favourite authors and Breakfast is the book I remember most fondly. So does it stand the test of time?

Breakfast of Champions is set in the run up to an arts festival in middle America. It features Kilgore Trout, who appears in many of Vonnegut's books, as well as the author himself. It zig zags along to a scene of mild danger at the opening of the festival. There are many diversions along the way as Vonnegut treats us to his unique and acerbic slant on life, illustrated with his primitive sketches - including one of his own sphincter.

The book is a kind of bookend to the first fifty years of Vonnegut's life. Sadly Kurt is no longer with us.

This book is funny, wise, knowing, cynical, erudite, profane, hopeful, affirming, nonsensical, forgiving, sarcastic. I cannot hope to do it justice in a review. God bless you Mr Vonnegut

Read it, it is a great book.

Description: In Breakfast of Champions, one of Kurt Vonnegut’s most beloved characters, the aging writer Kilgore Trout, finds to his horror that a Midwest car dealer is taking his fiction as truth. What follows is murderously funny satire, as Vonnegut looks at war, sex, racism, success, politics, and pollution in America and reminds us how to see the truth.

3* tSlaughterhouse-Five
4* tCat's Cradle
4* tBreakfast of Champions
5* Mother Night
3* Galápagos
3* God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
TR A Man Without a Country
TR tBluebeard
3* Deadeye Dick
4* God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian
TR Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage
3* Report on the Barnhouse Effect
3* tThanasphere

Kurt Vonnegut’s 7th novel and followed his most and popular. How did he go? Not too bad at all in this reader's opinion.

Free will is as ever to the front and centre of his work, with mental illness a major theme in this novel. It was initially hard to tell the direction this novel would take, as it began as a satire on what he may have thought of the life of US citizens at the time of writing. Some may say nothing has changed, some may not. What do I know? Nothing, as I have never lived there. As the story took shape it was certainly very funny at times, and with all Vonnegut’s writing so far more ideas driven with absurdist plot than some literary attempt at fine writing. Vonnegut is not subtle, he just bangs the reader around the head.

The story reached a climax in that an unknown Sci Fi writer meets a spiralling into madness used car salesman who read the writer's meaning of life novel and goes on a rampage as he interprets the book, called Now It Can Be Told, I laughed out loud at that, as a truth that we are all robots and lack free will. Is this a comment about some of mankind’s absolute faith in religious dogma as fact? I think so.

I did enjoy the crappy little line drawings on the way through. They kind of made the satire more satirical.

Recommended to the Vonnegut reader as they will get a lot out of this one.



My review of number 1 Player Piano.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
My review of number 2 The Sirens Of Titan here. https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
My review of number 3 Mother Night here.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
My review of number 4 Cats Cradle here.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
My review of number 5 God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater here
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
My review of number 6 Slaughter House Five
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

ربات‌های ملول و موادِ شیمیاییِ مضر

میلاد کامیابیان

۱
این حکایتِ دیدارِ دو مرد است، دو سفیدپوستِ تنها و بی‌کس، لاغر و نسبتاً پیر، بر سیاره‌ای که شتابان به سوی مرگ می‌رفت. و این عینِ جمله‌ی اولِ رمانِ صبحانه‌ی قهرمانان است، خودِ خودش. آقای نویسنده رمانش طوری را آغاز کرده که انگاری دارد، به جای نوشتنِ آن، یادداشتی «درباره‌»اش می‌نویسد. گویی خواسته، عوضِ داستان، خلاصه‌پیرنگش را صاف کفِ دست‌مان بگذارد که فکرمان جای دوری نرود و درگیرِ جزئیات نشود. در مقابلِ این درسِ معروفِ داستان‌نویسی که «نگو، نشان بده»، اتفاقاً از خیرِ نشان دادن گذشته و جهد کرده بگوید، منتها آن حرفی را که به گفتنش بیرزد. و خواهیم دید اصلِ حرفش چه بوده.‏
اما به این هم قانع نبوده. راوی‌اش جلوتر، اما در همان فصلِ نخست، آخر‌و‌عاقبتِ آن دیدار را هم لو می‌دهد و خیالِ من و شما را راحت می‌کند. بنا نیست دست‌و‌دلِ خواننده تا آخرین صفحات بلرزد که چه به سرِ این دو مردِ تنها می‌آید. کشمکش؟ تعلیق؟ فکرش را هم نکنید. از نویسنده‌ای که همان ب‌ی بسم‌الله تای تمتِ داستانش را نقل می‌کند، از نویسنده‌ای که با فاش کردنِ تهِ قصه در فصلِ نخست عامدانه دستِ خودش را رو کرده و لذتِ حدس و کشفِ فرجام را از خواننده گرفته، چه انتظاری دارید؟ پس کدام کشمکشِ ذهنی یا عینی بناست فکرِ مخاطب را مشغول کند؟ هیچ. جلوتر هم که می‌رود، هر واقعه‌ای را که بنا باشد برای شخصیتی پیش بیاید زودتر از موعدِ مقرر برای‌مان تعریف می‌کند. انگار کارگردانی‌ست که ما را به اکرانِ خصوصیِ فیلمش برده و آن‌وقت، سرِ هر سکانس، توی گوش‌مان می‌گوید که صحنه‌ای بعد چه اتفاقی می‌افتد.‏
باری، با این روش خطوطِ اصلیِ داستان برجسته شده‌اند، اما فقط برای این‌که از اهمیت ساقط شوند. خطوطِ اصلیِ سر‌و‌ظاهرِ شخصیت‌ها هم به همین شکل: خبری از شخصیتِ به‌اصطلاح «سه‌بعدی و زنده» نیست. آدم‌های داستان شکل‌و‌شمایلی کاریکاتوروار دارند. نه‌که لزوماً مضحک باشند. اما درست مثلِ همان طرح‌هایی ترسیم شده‌اند که نویسنده کشیده و لابه‌لای قصه‌اش گنجانده: شمایی کلی، با چند خطِ ساده و بی‌نشانی از سایه‌روشن. ‏

۲
حالا دو نمونه از آن شخصیت‌ها، همان دو مرد: اولی پونتیاک‌فروشی‌ست در مرزِ جنون، دووین هوور، مالکِ کمابیش نیمی از شهرِ ساختگیِ میدلند، از آن خرپول‌های آمریکایی که از تمامِ لوازمِ نیک‌بختی فقط بنیه‌ی مالی‌اش را دارند؛ و دومی هم، که کیلگور تراوت باشد، نویسنده‌ی گمنام و ناکام و ضداجتماعیِ داستان‌های علمی-تخیلی‌ست که ذهنش آکنده است از عقایدِ یأس‌آلود در بابِ نوعِ بشر، اما پشیزی از آن بنیه‌ی مالیِ کذا را هم ندارد.‏
ونه‌گات در مقدمه نوشته: «در این کتاب از تصوراتم درباره‌ی ماشین‌وار بودنِ آدم‌ها خواهم گفت» و کمی بعدتر، با لحنی طعن‌آمیز، افزوده: «به علتِ همین تصوراتم است که وقتی برای رمان‌هایم شخصیتی خلق می‌کنم، وسوسه می‌شوم همه‌ی تقصیرها را بیندازم گردنِ موادِ شیمیایی و سیم‌کشیِ معیوب.» همین کار را هم با دو شخصیتِ بالا می‌کند. در واقع، تصوراتش درباره‌ی ماشین‌وار بودنِ انسان‌ها را تحویلِ تراوت می‌دهد تا رمانی درباره‌اش بنویسد، و موادِ شیمیاییِ مضر را هم توی سرِ هوور جا می‌کُند. تراوت نماینده‌ی ونه‌گات می‌شود، و هوور آمریکاییِ سنخ‌نمایی که مخاطبِ هدفِ پرت‌و‌پلاهای به‌ظاهر بی‌آزارِ علمی-تخیلی‌نویس‌هاست.‏
قصه کمابیش خطی و با نوعی تدوینِ موازی پیش می‌رود: تراوت از آپارتمانش در کوهوزِ نیویورک راه می‌افتد و هیچ‌هایک‌کنان خودش را به میدلند می‌رساند. آن‌جا بناست جشنواره‌ای هنری برگزار بشود و الیوت روزواتر، میلیونرِ مرموزی که خودش قهرمانِ یکی از رمان‌های قبلیِ ونه‌گات بوده، باعث و بانیِ دعوتِ تراوت به آن شده. این‌طرف، یکی‌در‌میان، تقلاهای دووین را در میدلند می‌بینیم که روزبه‌روز بیشتر به کله‌اش می‌زند و چیزی نمانده که پاک خل شود. بیزار از همه‌کس و همه‌چیز، منتظرِ هنرمندی نابغه است که پا به جشنواره بگذارد و پیام‌برانه هدایتش کند که باید با زندگی‌اش چه کار کند. آن‌وقت، از بدِ حادثه، با تراوتی طرف می‌شود که کثیف و شلخته و رمان‌به‌دست می‌رسد. محتوای رمان؟ پیامی از جانبِ خالق به خواننده که «تو تنها مخلوقِ صاحبِ اختیار جهانی و الباقیِ کسانی که دور‌و‌برت می‌بینی همه ربات‌هایی هستند فاقدِ فهم و احساس که صرفاً برای آزمون و آسایشِ تو آفریده شده‌اند.» و همین تک‌جمله برای کسی که تقریباً تمام عمر با بهره‌کشی از دیگران زندگی کرده و در عمل نشان داده که در اعماقِ ضمیرش باور دارد به ماشین، ابزار، وسیله بودنِ انسان‌های دیگر حکمِ کبریتی را دارد که روشنش کنند و به انبارِ باروتش بیندازند.‏
حاصلِ مواجهه‌ی دووین و تراوت نیست مگر جور شدنِ در‌و‌تخته: افکارِ منفیِ تراوت و موادِ مضرِ توی سر دووین، توگویی در فعل‌و‌انفعالی شیمیایی، به هم می‌آمیزند و این را مجنون و آن‌یکی را نادم می‌سازند. ختمِ ماجرا. ‏

۳
صبحانه‌ی قهرمانان رمانی‌ست که، به هوای تعریف کردنِ داستان، نابسامانی‌های فزاینده‌ی سال‌های ۱۹۷۰ جامعه‌ی مصرفیِ آمریکا را بی‌ملاحظه‌کاری و محافظه‌‌کاری صاف می‌گذارد جلوِ چشم‌تان -از رواجِ هرزه‌نگاری بگیر تا تخریبِ بی‌حسابِ محیطِ‌زیست، از تبعیضِ نژادی تا قربانی شدنِ عدالتِ اجتماعی زیر پا (یا شکمِ) سرمایه‌داری- و نویسنده‌اش ابایی ندارد که ماشین‌وار شدنِ انسان‌ها را ایده‌ی محوریِ نوشته‌اش بسازد تا تبعاتِ تقلیلِ آدمی به دستگاهی لایشعر و ‌بی‌شعور را صراحتاً بیان کند و نشان بدهد سرنوشتِ ربات‌هایی را که تصور می‌کنند خودشان انسان هستند و دیگران ربات‌اند. چه شود!‏
با این وصف، اگر پیِ رمانی می‌گردید با پیرنگِ پیچیده و شخصیت‌هایی همدلی‌برانگیز که دقایقی هم شده عالمِ رنگ‌وارنگِ خیال را جای واقعیتِ پرملال به‌تان قالب کند، دست نگه دارید. این از آن‌هاش نیست. اما، اما اگر دوست داشته باشید پای حرف‌های راویِ بذله‌گو و باریک‌بینی بنشینید که خوش‌محضر و تیزهوش است، که جابه‌جا با «گوش کنید» مستقیماً خطاب قرارتان می‌دهد و هرجا حوصله‌اش سر رفت یا ادامه‌ی بحث را بی‌فایده دید با «الی آخر» سر‌و‌تهِ قضیه را هم می‌آورد، که یک‌باره به سرش می‌زند تصویرِ مرغِ سوخاری را پایینِ طرزِ طبخش برای‌تان نقاشی کند، و خلاصه اگر دوست دارید داستانی از نویسنده‌ای بخوانید که قصه گفتنِ صرف را هدفش نمی‌داند و با این حال قصه‌گویی را به‌غایت بلد است، آن‌وقت، آن‌وقت وضع فرق می‌کند. خانم‌ها، آقایان، اینک صبحانه‌ی قهرمانان؛ اینک کورت ونه‌گات!‏

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این یادداشت در وبلاگِ من، «پوئتیکا»:‏

http://poesis.blogfa.com/post/180/%D8...

Kurt Vonnegut famously graded all of his books. He gave Breakfast of Champions a C, and probably it deserves it.

Although there's plenty to appreciate in terms of wit and humor, and although there's a few genius scenes, as a whole this satire doesn't compare with Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five, or The Sirens of Titan. Where those books excel in clarity and being easy to follow, this one fails in a disorganized, meandering mess.

As with everything Vonnegut wrote, reading it feels more like experiencing an art piece than just a story, but the picture at the end is sort of a wreck like one of Pollock's paintings.

9/10

I already held Vonnegut in very high regard after Slaughterhouse 5. This book is in a similar vein but much funnier because it lacks the grim nature of WW2. Vonnegut is one of the funniest authors I’ve ever read. The way he deconstructs mundane human concepts is masterful and hilarious. Social satire at its best.

Malkovich's narration was excellent. One thing to note is that the book has a lot of funny drawings. On audio, those drawings are described verbally, which is not ideal but works well enough if you find and look for those drawings separately.

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits.

ASSHOLE.

Published in 1973, and I only just read it. In 1973, I was getting my heart broken by a guy, being fired from a theater job, getting robbed in an elevator, with no idea who I was or what I was doing, although I didn’t know that.

In 2021, I’m trying to sell a novel that features me as the writer of it as one of the characters, only to discover Vonnegut got there first.

He got to everything first in this wild ride. I wouldn’t have understood it in 1973. Now I do. Wow.

This is one of my earliest favorites and I have gone back to revisit several times over the years.

In high school I was both amazed and hooked by Vonnegut's wry humor and devilish mid-western charm. I have since caught on to the more serious metaphors and themes into which he delves. But the humor drew me in initially and makes me think of Vonnegut today.

Insanity explained as a chemical imbalance and dysfunctional families, relationships and communities described as matter of factly as a still life portrait. The novel within a novel, and the recurring character of Kilgore Trout, further leaves the reader with a depth of appreciation for this classic.

*** 2019 Re-read

I'm adding this to my all time favorites list.

When I think about Vonnegut and his writing, I am most often thinking of this book, his playful yet thoughtful way of describing his universe. And here it is demonstrably his universe as he the author, the creator, makes a guest appearance in Midland City to see all the goings on firsthand. And perhaps other creators, he does not control his handiworks by rigid cable and reign, but rather loosely and as with dry rubber bands.

Throughout this wonderful book we find drawings made by Vonnegut himself, illustrating his concepts and ideas. I smiled throughout the book, as I always do, and laughed out loud many times and many times because of his felt tip pen doodle.

Funny as he is, and charming too hen he wants to be, Vonnegut also tackles some heavy subjects as well, such as economics, fairness and institutional racism. This book is about the fabulously well to do as well as for those who do not have diddlysquat.

The scene with Rabo Karabekian (the protagonist of Vonnegut’s later book Bluebeard) where he describes his minimalist painting is one of Vonnegut’s finest. Trout's visit to the Midland City Arts Festival by way of Sugar Creek is also one of my favorites.

A joy.

Amerika’nın gerçek yüzüne hoş geldik. Bu nasıl bir metindi ya! Kitabı okuduktan sonra sıcağı sıcağına yorum yazamamış olmam bir şeyi değiştirmiyor hala kitabı elime alınca beynim dört koldan saldırıya uğramış gibi oluyorum. Müthiş uyarıcı, kafası çok değişik bir kitap bu. Kitapla ilgili yorumlara da bakınca da vesaireden, falan filandan öteye geçemiyorum zaten:) Demek herkesin kaosu kendine. Bu kitap bir çarpışma!

Kendi roman karakterlerinin arasına sızıveren bir yazar Kurt Vonnegut. Benim yazarla tanışma kitabım. Kitap boyunca kendini saklamakta beis görmüyor. Nitekim daha önsözünde buna hazırlıyor okuru. Başından beri sürekli araya girip “bunu ben yaptım, benim de şöyle, bence böyle, dinle” deyip araya giriyor, gaipten gelir gibi sürekli bilgi veriyor. Ve ilginçtir ki bu okuru hiç rahatsız etmiyor.

Yazar Kilgore Trout ve onun yazdığı her şeye inanan okuru Dwayne Hoover’ın hikayesini okuyoruz. Anlatması çok ama çok zor bir metin bu. Nefis bir taşlama. Üstelik yazar kamile anlatır gibi yapıyor bunu:) Çizimlerle, notlarla detaylandırarak destekliyor metnini. Bu yönüyle klasik romanlardan uzak fakat okuru hep okuduğu metinde tutmasıyla da şahane bir örnek. Öyle detaylar var ki çok sevdim. Altını çizmediğim sayfa yok gibi diyebilirim.

Ayrıca kurgu karakterimiz Kilgore Trout mu daha üretken yoksa yazar mı? O kadar çok hikaye doğurdu ki Şampiyonların Kahvaltısı. Üzerine söylenecek, düşünecek çok şey var. Bir yanıyla da yok. Söylenecek her şeyi söyleyen yazarların karşısında kalakalma sendromu diye bir şey varsa işte ondan.

Çok memnun oldum Bay Vonnegut.

“Ancak fikirlerimizin insaniliği ölçüsünde sağlıklıyız.”

This is, maybe with the exception of Slapstick, the worst Vonnegut book I've ever read. People seem to like it because it is very Vonnegut-y, but no one seems to realize that it fails to ever become coherent, or even become coherent in its incoherence like some of his other books. If you like Kurt Vonnegut because you think he is funny, you may like this book. But if you like Kurt Vonnegut because of his keen insight into human nature and the inherent folly of human existence, then this book is tripe.