I don't think that Vonnegut writes poorly, nor do I think this work lacks inherent interest. It's more-so that this, alongside Catch-22 and the like, is a genre I just can't get behind. I understand the need for anti-war fiction, indeed even fiction mostly accounted from real life witness. With that being said, it seems that once you've read one 'war is futile and nothing makes sense, but that's what war is all about' book, you've read them all.

Am I so far out of touch with those in the story that I just don't get it? Well, actually no, and I don't think that this would be Vonnegut's aim either. I hope that war has been made so redundant to me that the thought of going through something like this in life continues to be a totally alien concept to me and everyone else. But I'd also hope that books of this manner would still resonate and serve as a reminder of those that did go through such events and a warning for the rest of us not to repeat such dark times. This didn't happen here with me, nor have any other stories I've read in this genre. Works like The Gulag Archipelago on the other hand - that's a tour de force to contend with.

There were some phrases in the book, some descriptions that I really did like. An overweight man sits down on a bed. Rather than stating that the springs creaked or some-such, Vonnegut writes 'the mattress springs had a lot to say about that'. Great! Witty! Funny! But overall I cannot recommend it.