I am a Tralfamadorian, seeing all time as you might see a stretch of the Rocky Mountains. All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is.

I very much appreciated receiving this for my Jólabókaflóð 2023 book; it has been on my to-read list for over a decade. Kurt Vonnegut is also an author whom I’ve always wanted to read, expecting his work would be to my taste—and I was not wrong. This is a brief novel, but it is incredibly dense—it feels like Vonnegut sculpted each word precisely for its role. The core of the novel is about the bombing of Dresden, which is something that Vonnegut actually experienced; thus, the main character, Billy Pilgrim, does have some autobiographical elements. Though, of course, this is still a work of fiction. Occasionally, the veneer of fiction ebbs away, revealing reality—which is an impressive sleight-of-hand for an author. But I shouldn’t be surprised; after all, this is Vonnegut!

Interestingly, the subtitles are ‘The Children’s Crusade’ as well as ‘A Duty-Dance with Death’. The former, I presume, refers to the fact that young men who really didn’t know any better were shipped off to war; the former, of course, could be a number of things, least of all the experience of seeing Dresden bombed and people dying in the streets (not to mention your own comrades).

Billy was an interesting character; he’s sort of an everyman, whose existence is almost like an accident. He encounters events and meanders through them with scarcely any purpose; whatever the opposite of intentional is—that’s what he feels like. It’s all the more remarkable that Vonnegut manages to make him such a compelling character nonetheless. Of course, his intentions become a bit clearer and further developed as the novel progresses. The remaining characters are intriguing, if only to reflect on Billy’s personality and gradual change. Unfortunately, the women were pretty static, and written as a male writer would write his female characters in the 1960s.

The first few chapters are somewhat chronological and reflect Vonnegut’s time in Chicago almost exactly; it was a bit uncanny to read about those experiences—so far removed in time, and yet, so similar. However, the time warp of the novel is one of its central themes—and begins to throw the reader for a spin rather quickly. It does take some getting used to, but eventually, I grew to enjoy the brief interludes of aliens and asynchronous happenings in Billy’s life. Science fiction and the asynchronous telling of his experiences adds another layer of almost un-reality to everything, though it also reminds me of modern media like the film Arrival. Vonnegut’s visions of future America were also rather stark, and one could say rather pessimistic; I can’t exactly blame him, but it’s weird reading that so many decades ahead of him and wondering what he would make of our modern world.

The Tralfamadorian sense of time sees all time at once, not as a linear dimension but as a loop; everything that has once been will be in the future and always has been. When this is applied to Dresden and similar war experiences, on the one hand, it lends a kind of timeless quality to war—war exists, always has existed, and will continue to exist. On the other hand, it also places a barrier between the one experiencing the war and the war itself; for Vonnegut, perhaps this was a way of coming to terms with some of what he saw. However, there is a danger in depicting war in this way—it precludes the possibility of change.

Of course, this is an anti-war novel; how could it not be? Vonnegut’s own experiences didn’t let him go until he was able to flesh out this book, as hard-going as it was. What Billy Pilgrim witnesses, and indeed what Vonnegut himself saw, should be sufficient to show the horrors of war. At this point, I’m fairly fortunate in that I haven’t been involved in a country’s active war, nor sent to die for one. But my pacifist tendencies certainly sympathized and saw commonality with Vonnegut. I can hardly blame him for how he has processed these events, as coming out of something like that with your sanity somewhat intact seems victory enough.

A review can't really encapsulate the essence of this book at all, especially not after so many months have passed from when I read it. All I can do is recommend it—‘so it goes’. Also, I really need to read more of Vonnegut before I’m in a retirement home.