I’ve come to the conclusion that a Kurt Vonnegut novel is like a music album from an artist that never changes their formula e.g. AC/DC or Red Hot Chili Peppers. You know what an AC/DC album is going to sound like. You know what RHCP’s next single is going to sound like (and it’s probably going to involve California). That’s not a bad thing — if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Kurt Vonnegut is like that, like a music album more than a story. There are other authors like that too, but Vonnegut is so embossed that his style outshines any other part of the book. He’s not necessarily a storymaker, so much as a style. You’ve read one Kurt Vonnegut story, you know what the others are going to offer. There won’t necessarily be a linear plot or characters you like, but there will be a technique, a voice. Something that’s got a form that can’t really be described. And it’s popular because it’s something different. This is not a slight against Vonnegut, just a description.

It’s so stream-of-consciousness that I wasn’t sure where the story actually started. The plot meanders all over the place so that you’re not so much reading a story as you’re reading Kurt Vonnegut’s brain. Dwayne was a car dealer. Car dealers sell Corvettes. I once had a Corvette. I drove the Corvette up a mountain. The mountain did not like this. “Ouch,” said the mountain. It’s like a four-year-old telling you his dream, but amped up to the composure of an adult.

As far as I can tell, it’s a satirical indictment of capitalism. But with a non-linear story sustained long enough, it all becomes a mess, and I found myself getting distracted while reading because there was nothing to hang onto. It was like a painting that’s a swirl of colors that might seem pretty, but there’s nothing for my eye to rest on.