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I wandered the bookstore. Vonnegut reached out with one long, scraggly arm and slipped his arthritic fingers around my wrist. "All books speak," he said. "Right now, they are all gibbering and jabbering and crying out, 'Hey! Read me!,' but you only hear them if it is your time to read them. Sometimes it sounds like a madhouse in here. Sometimes a magical chorus. For god's sake, grab me and run before you hear all the others."
It was my time to read some Vonnegut.
I read this 92-page book in one sitting. It has all the wit and charm I've come to love from wizened (and wise) Vonnegut. The chapters are a page or two and each one speaks to a truth of existence. The book's conceit—that Vonnegut travels back and forth to the afterlife (thanks to Dr. Kevorkian) to interview the dead—works wonderfully well to supply imaginary anecdotes and vignettes that teach without being overly didactic.
Vonnegut's insight about the proliferation of divorce is reason enough to read this book (p. 19-21).
The book spoke to me in the bookstore, and it speaks to me still.
There is no greater truth.
It was my time to read some Vonnegut.
I read this 92-page book in one sitting. It has all the wit and charm I've come to love from wizened (and wise) Vonnegut. The chapters are a page or two and each one speaks to a truth of existence. The book's conceit—that Vonnegut travels back and forth to the afterlife (thanks to Dr. Kevorkian) to interview the dead—works wonderfully well to supply imaginary anecdotes and vignettes that teach without being overly didactic.
Vonnegut's insight about the proliferation of divorce is reason enough to read this book (p. 19-21).
The book spoke to me in the bookstore, and it speaks to me still.
There is no greater truth.