Reread on the summer of 2024
“Oh, happy meat. Oh, happy soul. Oh, happy *me*”! Love you Vonnegut.

This was the first book I’ve finished since the lockdown had taken place here . I bought this second hand book only because it was written by Kurt Vonnegut though I’ve not heard about it before. It’s,from my view, didn’t have that popularity. At least not like Slaughterhouse 5 or cat’s cradle. I to be honest wasn’t that much excited about it ,but I felt the need to read something for Vonnegut anyway. The story follows Rabo Karabekian’s life ,a fictionalized biography. He writes his biography about his past during the war time and post war time when he joined a group of Abstract Expressionist artists ,but also he ,equally, write about this summer in which he meets up with a really COOL character who in their first meeting when he saw her walking around his property and said hello to her she asked him without answering his question a really uncommon question. All of the sudden she take over his life and convinces him to write his biography. The relationship they had is Very COMPLEX and EXTRAORDINARY.she is 43 widow and he is 71 old man who lost his wife and all the lively spirit he once had .Their relationship is not one of friendship neither of love.It’s based on A REVIVAL. Vonnegut questions what is it like to be human and what right you ought to have when the war left no consideration for the legitimacy of human life ? He satirically discusses the artist’s work after war particularly Abstract Expressionist . This book is definitely one of my favorite books ever ! I loved this masterpiece so badly it allowed me to dive deep in the essence of our existence . In our identity and what makes us who we are . Indeed the ending gave me an unidentifiable feeling. Maybe a feeling of humanity?if I can allow myself to call it? Or maybe an unreliable freedom. I give you the liberty dear readers to name it but stay aware that a wonderful ending is ahead of you . I highly recommend it!

4.5 - this was moving in a way that I don’t fully comprehend yet. Will be thinking about Rabo Karabekian for a while

I did this book a disservice by trying to read it during the busiest season of my life and only absorbing a few pages a night before falling asleep. And yet, it shined! Kurt is the type of author who can make you feel devastated about humanity without making you feel lonely. Quirky and intensely reflective, as always.

I will reread this one on the timeline it deserves someday!

My friend just made fun of me for being a teenage boy because I love Vonnegut so much. Yes, there is something juvenile about him. I did first fall in love with Papa Vonnegut when I was fifteen. But, reading this book more than a decade later, I can say that he holds up as one of the most clever, moral, and compelling writers I have ever read.

This book takes on war, masculinity, depression, and the creative process. It is very readable, very funny, and very interesting. If that sounds like a simple review, then so be it. It is, after all, a pretty simple book. It meddles in the big topics but keeps its characters small.

The commentary on modern art is absolutely brilliant. I give it four stars overall, but if you are interested in modern art or the artistic process in general maybe I give it five stars.

Vonnegut's 1987 indictment of the fickle subjectivism surrounding the art and artists of the post-war era. Vonnegut candles the egg, if you will, of expressionism and throws a little light on the lunacy that often surrounds 'modern art.'

This novel, like every Vonnegut novel I've ever read, is tragic - but it has that patented KV infusion of humor and that familiar air of decency and humanity that makes it oh so enjoyable to read.

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 n  The Kindly Onesn 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.

n  n

NEW REVIEW:

I'm going on a rating change spree again! I don't remember this much and what I did remember was not very good. Oof.

I am giving this one a 2.5 out of 5 stars.

OLD REVIEW:

This was enjoyable. Very enjoyable to be exact. Yet, it is still one of Vonnegut's weaker novels. However, proving his brilliance, even his weaker novels are still very enjoyable. That is when you have a great author!

Like I said, the book is overall good! The story is interesting, the characters are interesting, and the way the story develops is wonderful. However, there is something that was wrong here. The usage of words wasn't the best. I could easily skip a paragraph of descriptions and not miss a thing. It was not how Vonnegut usually handles descriptions (for which he handles excellently, BTW.).

So, if you are into Vonnegut, I could safely recommend this. However, DO NOT START WITH THIS IF YOU ARE NEW TO VONNEGUT. Please do start with "Slaughterhouse-Five" or "Cat's Cradle." But, this book is still a goodie and I am giving it a 3.5 out of 5 stars. Finally, a book that isn't mediocre or bad in this month. I'm satisfied.

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.

Kurt Vonnegutin "Siniparta" (Tammi, 1988) on romaani armenialaistaustaisesta taidemaalarista Rabo Karabekianista, joka istuu talossaan Long Islandilla ja kirjoittaa elämäkertaansa. Se onkin aikamoinen tarina, johon nivoutuu ja toinen toistaan värikkäämpiä hahmoja. Kuten leskirouva ja nuortenkirjailija Circe Berman, kaivosmiehen tyttärenä syntynyt mutta kreivittärenä hautaan menevä Marilee Kemp tai Mussolinia ihaileva taidemaalari Dan Gregory. Kukaan ei osannut maalata univormuja niin kuin Dan Gregory.

Vonnegut on kyllä melkoinen kynäniekka. Vaikka "Siniparta" ei ole yhtä hyvä kuin aikaisemmin lukemani Äiti yö tai Teurastamo 5, niin huomasin nauttivani romaanista melkoisesti ja monella tavalla: sekä hymyilin kirjailijan (vähän mustanpuhuville) nokkeluuksille että pohdiskelevani kirjailijan kanssa ihmisyyttä ja ihmiselon omituisuuksia.

Keskeinen teema on myös pasifismi, kirjailijalle kai aika tyypillisellä tavalla, joka pahimmillaan ja samalla toki parhaimmillaan viiltää syvältä:

"Isät ovat aina niin ylpeitä nähdessään poikansa ensi kertaa univormussa", hän sanoi.
"Iso-Jussi Karpinski ainakin oli, minä sanoin. Iso-Jussi oli tietenkin pohjoispuolella asuva naapurini. Iso-Jussin poika Pikku-Jussi pärjäsi koulussa huonosti ja poliisit nappasivat hänet pilven myynnistä. Niinpä hän liittyi armeijaan kesken Vietnamin sodan. Kun hän ensi kertaa tuli kotiin univormussa, Iso-Jussi näytti onnellisemmalta kuin koskaan, sillä hänestä tuntui, että Pikku-Jussi oli viimeinkin ryhdistäytynyt ja hänestä vielä tulisi jotain.
Mutta sitten Pikku-Jussi tuli kotiin ruumispussissa. [...]
"Oliko oma isäsi sinusta ylpeä, kun näki sinut ensi kertaa univormussa?" Circe kysyi.
"Hän ei elänyt niin kauan", minä sanoin, "ja siitä olen iloinen. Jos hän olisi, hän olisi heittänyt minua saappaalla tai naskalilla."
"Minkä takia?" Circe kysyi.
"Älä unohda, että nuoret sotilaat, joista vanhemmat uskoivat vihdoin tulevan jotain, tappoivat jokaisen hänen tuntemansa ja rakastamansa ihmisen." (s.257-258)

Oikein hyvä lukukokemus. Annetaan saman tien neljä tähteä.

Сторителлинг – модное слово сегодняшнего дня.

Так вот, Воннегут – бог сторителлинга, который погружает нас в историю Рабо Карабекяна, американского армянина, который на склоне лет в своём огромном доме с видом на океан оглядывается на свою жизнь. Родители Рабо очутились в Америке, спасаясь после массового убийства армян в турецкой Анатолии. Они были единственными выжившими в своих селениях, и это наложило отпечаток на всю их жизнь. Сам Рабо – бывший солдат, несостоявшийся график и бизнесмен, неудачливый художник, который тем не менее обеспечил себе состояние, коллекционируя шедевры современного искусства у будущих гениев американской живописи на заре их творчества.
Покой Рабо Карабекяна нарушает загадочная Цирцея Берман. Знакомство с ней началось на частном пляже Рабо, границы которого она нарушила, с ее вопроса: «Как умер ваш отец?». Переехав в его дом, она начала бесцеремонно лезть в его дела, парадоксально таким образом возвращая его к жизни.

И только тайна одного места – картофельного амбара, который заперт Рабо и не доступен ни для кого – ей недоступна. Пока что… Как Синяя Борода, Рабо Карабекян хранит там…что? Узнаете на последних 10 страницах.

Я слушала аудиокнигу, и озвучка хорошего диктора с великолепной дикцией и интонациями добавляет этой истории граней. Увлекательная сага о жизни и смерти. О дружбе и любви, которых не было. Или были, но бестолково, сиюминютно, призрачно.

Персонажи, о которых хочется слушать. Судьбы, которые хочется узнать до конца. Чуть-чуть напоминает Вуди Аллена иронией и скрытой глубиной.

Вот пара цитат: «Никогда не доверяй уцелевшим, пока не выяснишь, каким это образом они уцелели“. «Я сделал все посильное, чтобы не относиться к себе серьезно». «Как же это выходит, что армяне всегда так отлично устраиваются? Пора бы кому-нибудь провести расследование».

Воннегут – моё личное открытие американской литературе.

#kyivbookworms #внеКЛАССноечтение #естьчтопочитать

Come Dancing

By the time I reached the last chapter of this novel, I realised that Kurt Vonnegut had taken me dancing, just as Rabo Karabekian had finally taken Mrs Circe Berman dancing.

Unforgettable!

71 year old Rabo sets off to write his autobiography, but soon discovers that it has equally become a diary of the summer of its writing in his elegant mansion on Long Island (inherited from his recently deceased second wife, Edith).

Rabo started his working life as a cartoonist and illustrator, devoted much of it to Abstract Expressionism (which he tired of) and ceased painting, but for one last work which tries to fill the gap between facile populist art ("They are a negation of art! They aren't just neutral. They are black holes from which no intelligence or skill can escape. Worse than that, they suck up the dignity, the self-respect, of anybody unfortunate enough to have to look at them") and post-modernist art works which aren't supposed to mean anything, and are "about absolutely nothing but themselves."

Self-Reflexiveness

There's a nice irony about this self-reflexiveness, because it's actually a concern of the novel itself, which is much more and far greater than a run of the mill work of white American male metafiction.

Rabo the illustrator and painter was an expert, if self-trained, draughtsman ("you could really draw"), a skill he largely abandoned, when he became part of the New York Abstract Expressionist movement. His work reflected meat, but not soul, and that ultimately is the principal concern of the narrative. How can Rabo get his soul/groove (his "pure essence of human wonder") back? The answer might be in the potato barn he has used for a studio.

The Anti-Modernist Mentor

Rabo's early mentor was Dan Gregory, a highly successful master of fake or counterfeit realism (much in the style of Norman Rockwell). His obituary describes him as "possibly the best-known American artist in history."

Gregory knew he had succeeded when he learned to pass a fake bank note for a real one. Gregory makes Rabo promise to learn by heart the sentence, "The Emperor has no clothes." He regards modern art (as found in the Museum of Modern Art) as "the work of swindlers and lunatics and degenerates."

How is that for trivia?

The Kitsch Writer

Circe Berman is actually a popular author of kitsch young adult novels that are "useful, frank and intelligent, but as literature hardly more than workmanlike" (under the pseudonym, Polly Madison), who is writing a biography of her deceased husband, Abe (a brain surgeon).

Rabo talks to her about the most pleasing aspects of being an artist. She asks if it is "having my first one-man show, getting a lot of money for a picture, the comradeship with fellow painters, being praised by a critic?"

Rabo asks Mrs Berman whether, for a writer, it is "getting great reviews, or a terrific advance, or selling a book to the movies, or seeing somebody reading your book?"

The Laying on of Paint

It's interesting to contrast painting and writing.

Rabo seems to emphasise the process of painting - the laying on of paint. Mrs Berman says it's handing in a finished manuscript and never wanting to see it again.

Regrettably, too many post-modernist authors rely more heavily on critical acclaim (or the acclaim of their coterie), especially those who derive their primary income from academia (or writing courses that duplicate their own style). "Nowadays, of course, every novelty is celebrated immediately as a masterpiece!"

Vonnegut, while claimed by post-modernists as one of their own when trying to assert the importance of their movement, is more often scorned because of his popular and commercial success, i.e., for developing a large and appreciative audience beyond the coterie/ the gang.

So be it.

There Ain't Nothing You Can't Do

Earlier, an art lecturer says to Rabo:

n  "Technically speaking, there's nothing you can't do...I think - I think - it is somehow very useful, and maybe even essential, for a fine artist to have to somehow make his peace on the canvas with all the things he cannot do. That is what attracts us to serious paintings, I think: that shortfall, which we might call 'personality,' or maybe even 'pain'."n

He adds:

n  
n  "[The very first picture in your portfolio] told me, 'Here is a man without passion.' And I asked myself what I now ask you: 'Why should I teach him the language of painting, since there seems to be absolutely nothing which he is desperate to talk about?' "n

Rabo's last painting remedies this defect, except that we can only perceive it in words. Initially, he describes it as a "watchamacallit". But eventually he tells us it is a portrait of a happy valley and the people who have been transported there at the end of the war in Europe.

Bluebeard

The title of the novel comes from a comment by Rabo to Mrs Berman:

n  
n  "I am Bluebeard, and my studio is my forbidden chamber as far as you're concerned."n

But that's not where the novel ends.

Goodbye. It's your turn now.


SOUNDTRACK:

Dexys Midnight Runners - "Dance Stance"

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsyvrfM...

It seems like every book by Vonnegut is better than the previous one I read.
Perfect satire, can't find many words to write a good review I just can say that I liked this biography of Rabo Karabekian, worth re-reading for sure <3 Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers!