Oh KV - no one can write the messy, unpalatable Truth of us like you. The only sane response to the great weight of sadness, which must come with any understanding of our species, is the sorrowful smile of your prose.

Opening in 1960, former Nazi Howard W. Campbell Jr. is sitting in a Jerusalem jail awaiting trial (a la Adolf Eichmann did in real life) for his part in the Third Reich’s crimes as a radio propagandist - except he was really an American double agent, sending coded messages to the Allies through his broadcasts. But is he a hero for working to defeat Hitler or damned for furthering the Nazis convictions against the Jews in the process?

Mother Night is the best Kurt Vonnegut novel I’ve read (though that’s not saying much as I’ve always thought he was overrated). I think that’s in part due to him not using stupid gimmicks like childish drawings (Breakfast of Champions) or hokey sci-fi elements (Slaughterhouse-Five); he’s telling a more-or-less straightforward and very interesting story and doing it really well too.

I liked reading Howard’s journey from famous playwright to secret agent in Nazi Germany to the dark and tense post-war years trying to live under the radar in New York. Also, the cast are a colourful bunch ranging from his artist neighbour (who’s also a secret Russian spy) to a demented racist dental publisher to the mysterious American who recruited him as an agent.

The only part of the novel that didn’t work for me was the nuanced depth Vonnegut attempts. Is Howard irredeemable because of his disguise as a Nazi propagandist or is it acceptable because he was really working for the Allies? For me the answer is clearly the latter, which is partly what makes him a likeable protagonist, but to Vonnegut Howard is guilty because “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

Are we what we pretend to be though – can we be what we are when we’re not pretending? What about Howard’s apoliticism, his only allegiance being to his beloved wife Helga, their “Nation of Two”, and his true vocation as a playwright? Does none of that truth count because of the mask Howard wore for a few years, especially considering that it was in service to a higher cause?

See, this is what’s always bothered me about Vonnegut: he’s too fucking cynical! Granted, Howard’s circumstances are complex and unique but Vonnegut always comes down on the negative side because he’s pessimistic, almost nihilistic, in his worldview. It’s a quality that makes him a compelling writer but it’s also quite limiting as his stories tend to always go in one direction - they become a little too predictable and repetitive in their overall themes. And the abrupt ending to this novel felt so pointless and uninspired.

While I appreciated the thoughtful moral dimensions, they weren’t that engaging and I enjoyed Mother Night the most for being an entertaining, well-written and briskly-paced story. I’d definitely recommend this to new Kurt Vonnegut readers over his more famous novels and to any Vonnegut fans who’ve not gotten around to this yet.

Today I will tell you about an interesting and unexplicably underrated semi-underground tribe: the Vonnegutians.

Either urban or rural, the Vonnegutians are spread all over the world (with primeval colonies in Indianapolis and the Galapagos islands) and cover at least three generations.

Tendentially secularists, the Vonnegutians may however be inclined to join the subtropical doctrine of Bokononism at an earlier or a later stage of their lives.

Regretfully, the social behavior of the Vonnegutians is still a mystery. And so it goes.

Oddballs at heart, many Vonnegutians are lonesome, romantic and slightly schizophrenic souls. These folks like to be considered outsiders and underdogs and, sometimes, join (and then desert) international fellowships of fanatic Vonnegutians known as 'karass'.

An interesting habit of the members of a karass is to call 'granfaloons' all non-Vonnegutians clubs, parties, societies, communities and religions.

How to recognise a Vonnegutian?
Well, that's incredibly easy. Just let him/her speak.

Most Vonnegutians are avid readers and share a common ground of uncommon jokes, obscure quotes, historic dates, Trafalmadorian jargon, German poetry all spiced up with a mix of sarcasm and fatalism.

Another key to understand if you are talking with an actual Vonnegutian is to ask him/her what their favourite book is.
Chances are the Vonnegutian will answer by mentioning one of the novels written by his/her prophet: Kurt Vonnegut Jr (KVJ).

The sub-tribe known as the 'Mother-Nighters' worship a scroll entitled 'Mother Night' and written in 1961 from KVJ.

It must be stressed out that the 'Mother-Nighters' do not represent a majority among the Vonnegutians, whose main sub-tribes are definitely the tempered 'Slaughterhouse-Fivers' and the fanatical 'Cat's Cradlers'.

However, if you will ever have the chance to meet an authentic Mother-Nighter (as your humble pen pusher, here, is), please keep calm and listen on. You won't regret it.

As much as I enjoyed reading Kurt Vonnegut expound upon Kurt Vonnegut in A Man Without a Country not that long ago, it didn't quite satisfy the craving I've had for his fiction. Sure, there is something to be said for watching a favorite author turn his fine-tuned gallows humor on himself and the society in which he both lives and has lived but sometimes I just want to be told a story, damnit.

Before launching into the novel proper, Vonnegut introduces Mother Night as the only story of his with a moral he knows: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." He then spends 269 pages proving what a haunting, damning and dangerous moral it is, with enough self-awareness and dark jocularity to keep this tale -- the fictional memoirs of Howard W. Campbell Jr., an American-born German playwright who hides in plain sight as a propagandist for WWII-era Nazis while all too convincingly infiltrating their ranks to aid the American government that employs him as a spy -- from getting too distastefully morbid.

It is, at first glance, a moral that stands in direct, fundamental conflict with what I believe to be true. Nothing galls me quite like the lazy assumption that a thing goes no deeper than its surface, that what it looks like is what it is and nothing more. To look no further than appearances subscribes to a flagrant disregard for motivation, circumstances, and any one thing's or person's capacity for multidimensional existence and purpose. To ignore the fact that there is almost always something working in the hidden recesses of the unspoken and unseen realms is, to me, the ultimate display of egotism, a perilous assumption that the observer knows more about a situation in which he plays no part and can't be arsed to offer it the courtesy of deeper contemplation or understanding by way of delving beyond the easy veneer.

But because this is Vonnegut, a message that seems to be an idealogical slap in the face of my own personal philosophy is, at its core, a confirmation that I'm not wrong. (And, really, what's the point of reading literature if not to find validation at the hands of greater minds?) If the Faustian origin of this novel's title heralds the eventual hellward saunter of one's bargaining-chip soul, the tale following such an exchange (that is, safety from the Nazis within their ranks as they believe him to be their loyal, hate-spewing voice) shows exactly why the road paved with good intentions leads to where it does. This isn't fake-it-'til-you-make-it terrain: This is a disturbing account of why hiding one's true goodness beneath layers of protective and necessary deceit without leaving a breadcrumb trail for others to find the way back to your honest intentions will always backfire, often with tragic consequences.

The story's moral shapes every character in this tale. Starting with the hero himself, who has an entire world convinced that his broadcasts of deliberately ludicrous anti-Semitic vitriol are spoken in earnest rather than in code, he comes to find that everyone who holds a more-than-fleeting place in his life after he is secreted away to anonymous but tenuous safety in a New York City apartment is hiding their true identities, too. From his doctor neighbor who refuses to acknowledge that his childhood detoured through a concentration camp to the woman he believes (and who has deceived herself into believing) to be his long-presumed-dead wife, from the friend who is really a spy who obliterates Campbell's incognito existence to the white supremacist whose retinue includes a black man and a Catholic who would otherwise be his sworn enemies if he hadn't become selectively blind to their egregious differences by converting them to his cause, absolutely no one is who they really are by virtue of self-denial.

There is a love story desperately trying to proclaim itself as a last bastion of hope in Campbell's apathetic post-war existence. While his beloved wife and muse, Helga, the actress for whom he wrote some of his finest plays as vehicles to showcase the essence of the adored and adoring woman who comprises the other half of his Nation of Two, is declared dead, it is clear that a part of the widower died with her. I don't feel like I'm spoiling anything by revealing that the woman who later finds Campbell in New York and claims to be his Helga isn't for two reasons: One, the truth, which is foreshadowed quite obviously though adeptly, is revealed fairly quickly; and two, it illustrates how desperately Campbell wants his wife to be alive and, when that is proven to be impossible beyond all rational thought, he then desperately wants to pretend this woman is his wife, if not a more-than-adeqaute stand-in for one person who has ever given his life meaning.

The dangers of such doggedly perpetuated tunnel vision that thrives by casting off all ties to reality is a theme that drives home the novel's moral. Leave it to our humanist friend to sum up the problems of both this novel of his and the world at large: "Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile."

Campbell knew what he was doing all along. Along his journey to the Israeli jail cell from which he spins his autobiographical tale, he collides with those who have no reason to doubt that he's their brother in arms against the lesser races, a mouthpiece whose convictions are evident in the words he reveals only to three other men and his memoir's audience to be nothing more than caricature on the surface and cipher in their meaning: These run-ins with his in-appearance-only compatriots provide crushing proof that they have warped their own perspectives to allow for the atrocities they've committed while Campbell had his wits about him all along. Rather than making the former apologetic victims of circumstance and the latter a heinous, calculating monster, Vonnegut accomplishes quite the opposite.

Stylistically, subtlety and understatement are the driving forces of a narration that relies more on a preference for telling rather than showing, a cardinal sin that anyone who's ever enrolled in a even one creative-writing class should recognize immediately; however, as any writer worth his ink will tell you, such rules exist to be broken for those who can break them with aplomb. While Campbell does allow images to speak for themselves, he is writing a memoir that is filled with his own observations, thoughts, conclusions and dot-connecting. What makes his propensity for telling successful is his succinctness: He doesn't dwell on a moment until its emotional resonance has been beaten into even the densest of reader, which is so often the unfortunate result of not trusting the audience to draw its own conclusions and extrapolating the significance of a scene to maximize the devastating impact. It's an an effect that not only showcases Vonnegut's talent but also hints at Campbell's own prowess as a man of words.

Vonnegut may have showed his hand early in terms of the overriding moral of Mother Night, though he peppers his novel with less emphasized though equally important truths that make the human condition a flawed but beautiful thing. The dangers of hate -- "There are plenty of good reasons for fighting... but no good reason ever to hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too. Where's evil? It's that large part of every man that wants to hate without limit, that wants to hate with God on its side. It’s that part of every man that finds all kinds of ugliness so attractive" -- are all but impossible to address in a novel that traverses so deeply and unflinchingly into one of the darkest stains on humanity's historical conscience. But as I've stated (probably ad nauseam) in other reviews, one of my other dearest personal beliefs is that one extreme cannot exist without a contrasting opposite to offer a counterbalance, which is another truth Vonnegut seems to agree with by the equalizing, comforting force his message of love delivers in these same pages: "Make love when you can. It's good for you."

Sprinkled throughout with his customary nuggets of insight jam-packed in a few bare sentences that floor me; often imitated, sometimes very successfully, but never matched. As I chisel away at this wonderful body of work, I hold on to and file away as many of these insights as I can, knowing that I will eventually arrive at an end. I also know that they have enriched my life beyond measure and will continue to do so as long as I don’t ever lose them.

It's been a long, long time since I read Mr. Vonnegut. I remember his satire being funny. I didn't laugh this time around. Maybe it was just me, but Mother Night was deadly serious.

Guilt. Not the state of being physically guilty of committing a negative action, a "crime" if you prefer, but the feeling of guilt that festers in one's soul for a lifetime. That's the guilt, that Raskalnikovian guilt, that interested me in Mother Night

I liked Howard J. Campbell Jr., Joseph Goebbels best radio propagandist, creator of vast amounts of anti-Semitic media, playwright and poet, American agent, lover in a "Nation of Two," post-War ghost, moralist. He seems the sort of man I could sit and have a drink with while talking about literature or politics or culture. But he contributed to terrible things, maybe even did terrible things himself, yet I'd still share that drink with him.

I think I'd rather be his confessor, though. But not a confessor in the way Mother Night structures the position. I'd want to be a priest with the ability to grant absolution to the pseudo-Nazi. Perhaps not a Roman Catholic priest, but any sort of quasi-priest that would enable me to provide succour to Campbell, to ease his pain, because it seems to me that those people who feel guilt deeply, who look back on their actions, despite the fact that they must have felt justified in their motivations when undertaking their actions, are those who need us most. No matter what they've done, they need forgiveness, or at least the permission to forgive themselves.

Guilt. What if I put that aside and approach Mother Night from another direction? If I do that I feel despair. Hopelessness becomes the word rather than guilt.

It's a powerful thing Vonnegut has done here. My mood is black today.

“We are who we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

Howard W. Campbell, Jr., the protagonist of the story, is a perfect example of someone who tried to do "as the Romans do" in Germany at the inhuman time of Third Reich and World War II and to get rid of his own conscience, yet got completely outplayed by it. It's absolutely impossible not to laugh at his attempts to please everyone and agree with everything his life brought upon him. At the same time his awareness of his own wrongdoings and those of anybody else was scary, because he did nothing to stop it. Or didn't he? Was he really a double-agent for the sake of "good guys"? Or was he just another raving schizophrenic?

The irony and cynicism is high in this book, but so is the humour and - as always with Vonnegut - you get to be sad and giggling at the same time. The gallery of characters is quite colourful too and impossible to forget. Read this book and you will learn everything about human madness and absurd of war and politics, maybe even better than from Slaughterhouse-Five. Unless you think that aliens from Tralfamadore are more fun than The Black Führer of Harlem... Read it after Slaughterhouse then. It's brilliant.

Vastly underrated piece of black comedy, about a World War 2 double agent whose cover is a Nazi propagandist in the style of Lord Haw-Haw. Vonnegut says in the preface that this is the only one of his books where he knows what the moral is. You are what you pretend to be, so be careful about who you pretend to be. For my money, Vonnegut's second best book, running  Cat's Cradle very close.

It's not just me - the great Doris Lessing also wrote once that she couldn't quite understand why this book wasn't more famous. Her speculation was that the literary world simply refuses to take anything seriously that is first published in paperback. Now that she's finally received the Nobel Prize, maybe people will listen more carefully :)

Here we are at the journey's end; a man who had no real reason to enlist as a soldier. A man who had a future outside his propagandist associations with the Nazis during World War II. Howard Campbell Jr., a playwright and author of erotical writings.

Mother Night is written in first person narrative. It is very personal and unrelenting.

The novel deals with What ifs, but more so, it offers ruthless aftermath where fascists are hunted, by the allies and Israel, the 'nation' of the Jews.

It is also about identity and patriotism, only if you're an American, Russian, Jew, or Fascist. It also offers a comprehensive outlook on the trial of Eichmann and his notorious stance of following Hitler's orders.

This novel is written as a memoir by an imprisoned Nazist. Campbell is an American by birth (an irony!), awaiting trial in Israel. It is his story up to the point where he is imprisoned. He meets quite a few poignant historical figures.

It is an impressionistic work of historical fiction; one that offers a savage outlook of those trapped by propaganda and forced to take sides and then live with the consequences of their choice. Morality is vital and highlighted throughout. Campbell believes that war's results are the absence of meaningfulness and tragedy. It (war) makes you a nihilist.

I enjoyed the author's style of writing. It is to the point and brutal, as is satirical. I will continue to scavenge book shops and hope to read his other works. I hope they are as good as this book.

I have a soft spot for Kurt Vonnegut: Slaughterhouse-Five was my entry point (or perhaps re-entry point after a very long hiatus) into literature. I read it just over a year ago, and I loved Vonnegut's straightforward, witty and cynical style. But really, it was the way that he combined so many strange and unique elements in such an original way to express something very powerful, that so captivated me. The book was unlike anything I had read before, and it hinted at the great potential of literature to express a depth of meaning and emotion that I had not seen reached by other means. Slaughterhouse-Five prompted my very first review on Goodreads, and a subsequent drive to recreate and expand on that experience by seeking out and reading as much great literature as possible.

A short time later, I read two more of his novels and loved them both. But I have read 158 books since Cat's Cradle and I have been increasingly reluctant to revisit Vonnegut, lest I find that I have outgrown him. Alas, reading Mother Night, I did find that a lot of the old lustre was gone. Vonnegut's prose did not hit me with quite the same brilliance that it once did. My exposure and my tastes have grown, and Vonnegut must now compete with the likes of Faulkner, McCarthy, Woolf and Nabokov. He still stands tall, but can no longer tower over figures such as these.

This is not to say that Mother Night is anything but an excellent novel. It has all the charm of Vonnegut's voice, along with the usual Vonnegut weirdness and moments of true poignancy. The novel is the study of a moral ambiguity: of how right and wrong are relative concepts - as much contingent on environment and circumstances as they are on the character of a person (though in this capacity it is perhaps not entirely successful in that the protagonist is too damn likable - despite the role he played in creating and disseminating Nazi propaganda, we rarely feel anything but sympathy for him). I do not think this is a profoundly important novel, but it is one that addresses this single question in a compelling, insightful and above all thoroughly entertaining way.

I have a couple more unread Vonnegut novels sitting on my shelf, which I expect to pick up in a year or two. When I do, I hope it will be like spending time with an old friend.

Vonnegut ti chiedo scusa. Non riesco a capire come io e te possiamo essere rimasti sconosciuti per così tanto tempo. Rimedierò un passo alla volta te lo prometto.

Dopo Mattatoio n 5, Madre notte è il mio secondo incontro con Vonnegut e l'unica cosa che posso fare è inchinarmi.
Il libro è l'autobiografia di un nazista americano in attesa di processo per crimini contro l'umanità. Detta così sembra facile, Howard Campbell jr è cattivo e tutti lo biasimiamo. Ma la vita è molto più difficile di così, il giusto e lo sbagliato hanno confini raramente netti e Vonnegut non perde occasione per ricordarcelo e per farci sapere che la guerra è una cosa brutta, sempre, da tutti i lati.

Cos'è un uomo? Quello che è o la sua maschera? Campbell è quasi un personaggio pirandelliano in cui maschera e persona si fondono senza farci capire cosa ci sia di giusto o sbagliato. Fino a dove l'uomo è le sue idee o le sue parole, e, soprattutto, quante volte le due non combaciano. E Campbell che cosa pensa davvero?

Facciamo che ci pensiamo su un pochino anche noi che è meglio.

In a beautiful allegory of human duality, Vonnegut presents us with a character wavering on two worlds: pre-WWII and post-war; good and evil; certainty and ambiguity; past and present; life and death. As an American spy during the war, the main character is now faced with the ambivalence of whether he helped the Allies more than Germany, and if his civic responsibility was anything more than self-serving. Vonnegut delves deep into the psychological repercussions of ethical decisions, and society's recognition (or lack thereof) of an individual's morality.

Gutwrenching and beautiful at the same time, every character is both a hero and villain in his or her own right, and every scene will leave you questioning where you stand in a world of double standards. Worth a read for anyone who feels any bit of sentimentalism toward individual or group ideologies.