8/13/2019 Vol 4 Issue 4 1981 Leon F. Seltzer - Dresden and Vonnegut's Creative Testament of Guilt http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/vol-4-issue-4-1981-leon-f-seltzer-dresden-and-vonneguts-creative-testament 1/15 Dresden and Vonnegut’s Creative Testament of Guilt Leon F. Seltzer Of all the cultural issues in Kurt Vonnegut’s fiction, the one probably least examined by commentators is also the one most frequently cited: namely, the outrageous Allied firebombing of Dresden. This infuriatingly gratuitous air raid of a militarily irrelevant city at the conclusion of World War I1ma y be viewed as one of the greatest debacles in European history. In it British-American air forces laid waste an esteemed Baroque cultural center, recognized as “The Florence of the Elbe,” a nd destroyed the lives of at le as t 135,000 people-almost twice as many as the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Vonnegut, a first-hand witness of this massive moral atrocity, was at the time an American prisoner of war safely interned three stories below ground in a meat locker. Given such a vantage point, he was privileged to survive the holocaust physically unscathed. But whether he was so privileged psychically is altogether another question. In his Playboy interview (1973), Vonnegut contends that the significance of Dresden in his life has been “considerably exaggerated” and suggests that any survival guilt he might have sustained was practically precluded by his many months of intense hunger in prison camp. To use his own phrase: “I’d paid my dues.”’ Yet this rationalization fails to explain the obsession with Dresden manifest in almost all his novels. And Vonnegut has himself fatally undercut this stance elsewhere (in an interview with John Casey and Joe David Bellamy) by acknowledging that when he returned to the States in 1945, he “started writing about [Dresden], and wrote about it, and wrote about it and WROTE ABOUT IT”-adding that Slaughterhouse-Five (the first of his novels to confront the firebombing directly) “is a process of twenty years of living with Dresden an d the aftermath.”2 Such an admission finds repeated support among the large array of Vonnegut critics who have emerged in recent years; and their unanimity in reading the author’s work is, in this respect at least, truly striking. To present just a sampling: to Jerome Klinkowitz, “Vonnegut, obviously haunted by this abrupt and violent initiation into contemporary reality, attempted throughout his career as a novelist to arrest this experience artistically;”3 to David H. Goldsmith, “rarely has a single incident so dominated the work of a writer. The guilt Vonnegut felt about Dresden stuck to him like a Lord Jim c~mplex;”~ o Peter J . Reed, Vonnegut’s “horrifying and puzzling experience of being under the raid on Dresden seems to haunt him;”s to Alfred Kazin, “Kurt Vonnegut’s books are haunted by. Dresden;”‘j to Stanley Schatt, “this holocaust colored Vonnegut’s entire ~areer;”~ nd to Joe David Bellamy-who, admittedly, 55
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Vol 4 Issue 4 1981 Leon F. Seltzer - Dresden and Vonnegut's Creative Testament of Guilt
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8/13/2019 Vol 4 Issue 4 1981 Leon F. Seltzer - Dresden and Vonnegut's Creative Testament of Guilt
does seem a little carried away-nearly every write-up of the author (and by
now they number in the hundreds) has been concerned with “how the
magnitude of the event devastated hi s psyche and nearly struck him dumb,and how he h as spent the last twentyfive years of his life struggling to come
to terms with this single overwhelming event.”x
All of these observations were made after the author’s apparent
“exorcism” of Dresden in Slaughterhouse-Five, one of his most successful,
and unorthodox, fictional undertakings. Judging from the reduced quality
of that work’s fictive successors-the less-than-inspired Breakfast of
Champions and the artistically abortive Slapstick-Vonnegut’s “trial”atDresden may well have been at the creative core of his fictional
achievements? If Slaughterhouse-Five did in fact enable the author to
purge himself of accumulated guilt such as to make further sublimation ofhis wartime ordeal unnecessary, the strangely enervative aspect of
Vonnegut’s last two novels becomes understandable enough. Still, that
Vonnegut’s conscience should for so long have been plagued by a n act of
military barbarism beyond his responsibility and control hardly seems
rational; and it may be useful to offer some speculation as to the origins of a
guilt much too facilely identified by commentators with the author’s
fortuitous presence in Dresden during its nightmarish fire-storm.
As a German-American with relatives and friends of his parents living
in Germany during the war, Vonnegut’s very personal moral dilemma
precipitated by America’s entrance into the war should be easy to
appreciate. Writing with pride in the Prologue to Slapstick about his
German ancestry, Vonnegut nostalgically remarks that “the delight the
family took in itself was permanently crippled by the sudden American
hatred for all th ings German which unsheathed itself when this country
entered the First World War, five years before I was born.”’” Although anti-
German sentiment at the time of the Second World War was not asvenemous as in the First, it was undeniably present. And it prompted the
author to attempt a resolution of his pained ambivalence toward the
outbreak of war through some rather untimely declarations of pacifism.These declarations were made in the spring of 1941 when Vonnegut was
studying biochemistry at Cornell and contributinga column to The Cornell
Daily Sun. Following the ideological footsteps of his parents (who were atonce American patriots and pacifists), he wrote anti-war pieces that
embarrassed the rest of the newspaper staff. At one point, a n Editor’s Note
appended to his column emphasized th a t the views expressed by the author
did not necessarily reflect those of the paper.“
If Vonnegut felt vaguely guilty about his German background and his
unpopular stance toward America’s intervention in the war, his later
enlistment and service in the infantry hardly served once and for all to
dispel his moraluneasiness. For while he became convinced that Hitler andNazism were evil and had to be stopped, the universal capacity for evil sodevastatingly brought home to him by the Allies’ ruthless demolishment ofDresden left him as uncomfortably pacifistic as he had been prior to the
war. Given a moral susceptibility only heightened by his German
extraction, it was impossible for Vonnegut to survey the dismal ruins of a
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enthusiasm and zeal with which he acted out-or “realized”-his Nazi role,
Scholes’ assertion might at first seem a bit far-fetched. But significant
relationships between Campbell and his creator abound, and they aregenerally easy to locate. Probably the most obvious connection is simply
that Campbell’s name, like Vonnegut’s, ends in “Jr.” Moreover, although
we do not learn of it specifically until his reappearance in Slaughterhouse-Five Campbell has survived the frightful Dresden air attack by taking
refuge in the same slaughterhouse that sheltered not only Billy Pilgrim but
Kurt Vonnegut himself. Such a “coincidence” is similar to the peculiar
situation of Campbell’s having a mother so morbidly disturbed that before
her son was ten she felt compelled to provide him with a grim demonstrationof how the t w o of them would look as corpses. Her mentally troubled
preoccupation with death seems a dramatic heightening of Vonnegut’sperception of his own lugubrious mother-whose temporary insanity he
mentions both in Breakfast of Champions and in the Prologue toSlapstick-and whose “legacy of suicide” he laments in the former novel.
While Campbell’s mother does not actually commit suicide, Campbell
himself does (as do Resi Noth and the immigrant Lazlo Szombathy); and
Vonnegut’s obsession with self-destruction n almost all his fiction suggests
that at various points in his career he considered it a viable alternative to
continuing bouts of frustration and despair. In The Eden Express (1975)by
the author’s son, Mark Vonnegut (who himself became temporarilyschizophrenic), we get this telling disclosure: “From as early as I was old
enough to worry about such things I had worried about [my father’s] either
drinking himself to death or blowing his brains out. He had hinted at it
fairly broadly from time to time. Sometimes I thought the only thingholding him back was fear of how it would affect me. ‘Sons of suicides findlife lacking...’- Rosewater.”l5,l In his Playboy interview, Vonnegut claims
that Breakfast o f Champions contains an implicit promise that he will notcommit suicide, adding: “...I’m beyond that now. Which is something for
me. I used to think of it as a perfectly reasonable way to avoid delivering a
lecture, to avoid a deadline, to not pay a bill, to not go to a cocktail party.”17All this is certainly not to suggest that Vonnegut is the “death-
worshipper” that Campbell portrays himself a s becoming after the war,17but to indicate that the protagonist of Mother Nigh t exemplifies many of the
author’s deepest anxieties about himself and his relationship to life.
Satirical “half-portraits” of Vonnegut are not limited in the novel to
Campbell either. There are other doubles as well. To give but one example,
the painter George Kraft (in reality a Russian spy named Colonel Iona
Potapov) resembles the author in such things as his drinking problems, his
serious commitment to art, and the amusing circumstance that Vonneguthas him claim to be from his own hometown, Indianapolis. In fact, the
seemingly endless shifting of identities in the novel lends credence to the
view that the author sees everybody as lacking in fundamental integrity
and consequently capable of anything: the morally pointless murder ofinnocent others (astook place on both sides during World Wa r 11)as well asthe almost equally pointless murder of self (the desperate attempt toobliterate personal identity altogether). Also, the fascinating situation thatthe novel includes, in addition to Campbell and Kraft, a character called
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“Heinz” strongly hints at the author’s using popular brand names-ofcorporations famous for the variety of their manufacture-to intimate the
multiplicity of the modem, irrational self: defined much more from withoutaccording to the exigencies of time and place) than from within. That this
rootless and therefore unstable identity is finally a tool of evil is bestsuggested by Heinz himself who, incidentally, is Campbell’s “doublespartner” in ping-pong during the war), in his shamefully telling Campbell:“All people are insane. They will do anything at any time, and God helpanybody who looks for reasons.”
Given such chaotic unreason, the whole concept of patriotism, ofnationalistic chauvinism, becomes absurdly arbitrary. And this anti-patriotic stance is in fact expounded both by Campbell within the fictional
context and by Vonnegut in his 1966 Introduction. Campbell drollyillustrates the essential blindness of patriotism to Kraft by drawing on hiswindowpanes a swastika, a hammer and sickle, and the starsand stripes-an d then cheering lustily for each symbol as he impersonates in turn theNazi, Communist and American. Elsewhere in the novel Campbell offers toMajor Frank Wirtanen the American who has recruited him as a nundercover spy) th is bitterly cynical reply to the question of what he wouldhave done if Germany had won the war: “There is every chance ha t Iwould have become a sor t of Nazi Edgar Guest, writing a daily column of
optimistic doggerel for daily papers around the world. And, as senility setin I might even come to believe what my couplets said: that everythingwas probably all for the best.” Compare this paradoxically whimsical yetsardonic declaration to Vonnegut’s singularly self-disparaging peculationin the novel’s belated Introduction: “If I’d been born in Germany, I supposeI would have been a Nazi, bopping Jews and gypsies and Poles around,leaving boots sticking out of snowbanks, warming myself with my secretlyvirtuous insides ashas Campbell while, presumably, only “playing” therole of Nazi]. So it goes.”
Such a soured view of patriotism helps to explain the disillusioned
pacifism of both Vonnegut and his fictive persona. Another explanationhas to do with Vonnegut’s making his protagonist or really protagonist-antagonist) a writer, a man whose temperament and talent naturallycombine to make him apolitical. As Campbell, the prosperous Germanplaywright, confides to Wirtanen before he isfinally prevailed upon to servehis home country, he is neither a soldier nor a political man but a n artist,concluding: “If war comes, I won’t do anything to help it along. If warcomes, it’ll find me still working at my peaceful trade.” Vonnegut, too,endeavored to avoid the war and (as has already been mentioned) even
wrote editorials against his country’s entering it. But finally he felt obligedto abandon his pacifism and enlist-and for reasons similar to Campbell’s.Wirtanen argues cogently t hat the romantic sense of moral missionrevealed in Campbell’s plays will eventually force his compliance; and theGerman-American Vonnegut finally enrolled in military service for reasonscorrespondingly moral-and escapist. What at last distinguishes Campbellfrom his creator is the self-styled Nazi’s total lack of any ultimate ethicalcommitment t hat transcends his “assumed” role. Campbell himself admitsth at the Drimars reason he accepted the role of Nazi broadcaster was tha t he
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father, who took a firm stand on the foolishness a nd impracticality of hisson’s majoring in the Arts. Vonnegut eventually rebelled against his
father’s wishes, but a lingering filial guilt for doing so is only to beanticipated.18The author’s recognition of a person’s almost inevitable accumulation
of guilt is suggested in God Bless You Mr. Rosewater by the words of oneLeonard Leech, a Cornell Law Professor whose deplorably unscrupulousadvice the ruthless Norman Mushari takes so seriously to heart. Leechwhose name reduces him to comic-book allegory) tells his opportunistic
student how to capitalize not only on the well-nigh universal “inferioritycomplex” but also on “the shapeless feelings of guilt ...most people [have].”Such a view of the human propensity toward guilt finds support in
Rosewater’s irrational reaction to the Dresden firestorm, in which he hadno personal involvement whatever. For we are told: “He had a book hiddenin his office, and it was a mystery even to Eliot as o why he should hide it,why he should feel guilty every time he got it out, why he should be afraid ofbeing caught reading it.... It was called The Bombing o Germany.’’
Vonnegut’s likely feelings of guilt for being “privileged” to escapeunincinerated the monstrous conflagration of Dresden-even though hewas himself part German-seems literally about as irrational as
Rosewater’s guilt for this and other accidents that ultimately define his
whole response to life. For, as the onetime incredibly wealthy MalachiConstant is led to state in The Sirens o Titan “I was a victim of a series ofaccidents, as are we all.”
One other victim in Vonnegut’s fiction that surely deserves mention isBilly Pilgrim. And here, too, we have a character whose obscure guiltfeelings seem unrelated to the violation of any moral code but involvedinstead with experiences in the Second World War . It is significant that inSlaughterhouse-Five the author chooses to place Rosewater and Billy inadjoining beds in a mental ward of a veterans’ hospital. According toVonnegut, both men are seeking to “reinvent themselves’’-and in both
cases this is necessary partly because of what the two men have gonethrough in the war. The unconscious guilt that appears to afflict Billy seemsin many ways connected to-or compounded by-his having witnessed thehorror of Dresden. Many years after the war his roommate at anotherhospital complains tha t “all he does in his sleep is quit and surrender andapologize and ask to be left alone.” Such a description is faintly reminiscentof one used to characterize the much more culpable Howard Campbellasheawaits trial in a n Israeli prison. Bernard Mengel, one of Campbell’s guards,tells the ex-Nazi propagandist t hat he “sleep[s] very noisily ...tossing and
talking all night,” signifying to Mengel “a bad conscience about what hedid in the war.”Given the uneasy conscience of Vonnegut’s three main “Dresden-
related” characters, it is no surprise that the author’s fiction shouldrepeatedly be concerned with methods of escaping this burdensome guilt.Perhaps the most obvious-or at least the most dramatic-method is
through suicide, and a death wish can easily be inferred in each of thesethree principals. Campbell worships death and perceives himself as deadyears before he actually resolves to hang himself. Rosewater’s attempts at
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suicide during the institutionalization tha t follows is final breakdown
(which ishighlighted by his hallucination of Indianapolis being devastated
by a firestorm) are explicitly mentioned at the end of the novel, but al lthrough the narrative the author’s references to Rosewater’s alcoholism
intimate a longing for self-obliteration. Billy pilgrim’s extraordinary
passivity seems so devoid of determination and will tha t, even though he
makes no attempts at his life, it seems clear that his traumatic experiences
in the war have shocked him into something fa r more inert than alive.
But-needless to say-suicide isnot really a n escape froma chronically
afflicted conscience so much as a final capitulation to it. And so while
Vonnegut betrays a fascination with suicide in virtually all his novels, he
explores other tactics for dealing with unremitting guilt feelings. One tactic
is to subdue the irrational voice of conscience through self-inflicted
suffering, to “buy it o f f ’ as it were. Concentrating once again on the
heroes-or anti-heroes-of Mother Night God Bless You Mr. Rosewaterand Slaughterhouse-Five we can detect a variety of behavior
psychoanalytically understandable as “moral masochism.” Howard
Campbell informs us tha t afterreturning o the States after the war, he lived
reclusively for fifteen years in “a depressing attic apartment [in
Manhattan] with rats squeaking an d scrabbling in the walls”-a self-
designed “purgatory,” as he himself admits. His finely calculated self-
punishment is further revealed in his telling the reader tha t by the time ofthe war ended h e had inherited from his parents a legacy worth forty-eight
thousand dollars.
By 1960 this inheritance is worth almost two hundred thousand. But
Campbell, punning grimly, apprises the reader: “Say what you like about
me. I have never touched my principal.” Living likea pauper on war surplus
goods when he actually has enough funds to live a life of comparative
indulgence, he turns his whole life into a prolonged penance. His behavior
even suggests unconscious self-crucifixion when he speaks about his
building a chess set from a Korean war surplus wood-carving set: Icarved for twelve hours st raight, sank sharp tools into [my] palm a dozen
times, and still would not stop. I was an elated, gory mess when I was
finished.”Another dingy attic dweller is, of course, the millionaire Eliot
Rosewater, whose almost ludicrously squalid surroundings patently reveal
the urgency of his need to renounce al l the privileges that accompany his
inherited sta tion in life. And his self-sacrificing practice of philanthropy
an d “uncritical love’’ in the (metaphorically at least) burnt-out township of
Rosewater is so overextended as o imply a desperate reaction-fomation tothe repulsively pathetic victims of “progressive” American automation he
gives up everything to help. For the inhabi tan ts of this small Indiana town
are contemptible-ugly, stupid, weak, insensitive, degenerate-and there isample evidence that Eliot (who holds a doctorate in international law) isnever quite able to suppress a deep, underlying disdain for them. We are
told, for instance, that during a phone conversation with his estranged wife,
Sylvia, he “revealed hat he had no illusions about the peopleto whom he
was devoting his life.’’Andatthe endof thenovel, whenhis ather describes
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to him in the hospital the intense feelings these people still harbor for him,
we learn that “Eliot felt his soul cringe.”
Billy Pilgrim’s masochism can in no way rival the grandeur ofRosewater’s passionately self-inflicted post-war altruism, but it isnonetheless visible. When fellow infantryman Roland Weary takes out his
wrath on the absent-minded Billy for being left behind, Billy makes not the
slightest effort to defend himself. He is “socked,” “knocked,” kicked and
“rolled” by Weary but remains totally impassive-“making convulsive
sounds that were a lot like laughter.” His unconscious desire for
punishment is futher intimated by his mentally unbalanced proposal of
marriage. As Vonnegut confides: “Billy didn’t want to marry ugly
Valencia. She was one of the symptoms of his disease.” It seems justifiable
to interpret this disease as unduly magnified guilt and the symptom as self-immolating masochism.
In the end, however, the “cure” of masochism is hardly less self-
destructive to Vonnegut’s tormented characters than suicide, so that the
author is prompted to examine as a solution for senselessly nagging guilt
not merely the assault upon self but the assault upon one’s most personal
reality. In a word, with schizophrenia. This schizophrenia isnot reduceable
to any clinically analyzable psychosis: generally it has a high degree of
human credibility, but occasionally it seems conceived by the author as
much in philosophical, or spiritual, terms as psychological ones. Basically
Vonnegut seems to recognize two types of schizophrenia, although thesetypes contain definite parallels and overlaps, and are linked by repression.
The first is predominantly intellectual and relates to the human tendency
toward even the most flagrant rationalizations to justify behavior at war
with one’s self-image or conscious belief system. The second, which is far
closer to a textbook description of the disease, deals with the flight of
personal consciousness from a reality too painful or gruesome to bear. Such
flight can manifest itself either by a retreat into fantasy or by a total
suspension of the offending consciousness. Examples of these two varieties
of schizophrenia in Vonnegut’s fiction are fairly widespread, so that it willbe advisable to confine their illustration largely to the protagonists already
discussed. The important thing to keep in mind is th at all instances of
schizophrenic behavior in Vonnegut are last-ditch contrivances to preserve
the self, perceived by the individual as mortally threatened, whether from
without or within. Unfortunately, in every case the self can be protected
only at the expense of its basic moral integrity-the reason that, finally, the
extreme “remedy” of schizophrenia is, like suicide and masochism, rejected
by the author.To interpret schizophrenia as, at least in part, a reaction to the feared
murder of self accurately reflects the author’s own sentiments. For, as a
“character” in his own novel-or anti-novel-Breakfast o Champions
Vonnegut has himself say: “You’re afraid you’ll kill yourself the way your
mother did,” and then respond, “I know.’’ At which point the author begins
another of his endless mini-sections with the words: “There in the cocktail
lounge, peering out through my leaks [eyeglasses] at a world of my own
invention, I mouthed this word: schizophrenia.”It is certainly significant
that Howard Campbell determines to take his life after a wild array of
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circumstances have, practically, destroyed all his remaining schizophrenic
defenses and forced him fully to come to terms with his moral responsibility
in the war. Writing from his prison cell, he argues that he was totally awareof the grotesquely scurrilous and morally repugnant anti-Semitic
propaganda he regularly aired on his wartime broadcasts. “But”-he
remarks- “I’ve always been able to live with what I did. How? Through
that simple and widespread boon to modern mankind-schizophrenia.”
Elsewhere Campbell refers to a “Nazi daydream” called (‘The FreeAmerican Corps,” which was to be a volunteer fighting unit made up mostly
of American prisoners of war-adding parenthetically: (‘WhenI call this
unit a Nazi daydream... I am suffering from an attack of schizophrenia-
because the idea of the Free American Corps began with me. I suggested itscreation, designed itsuniforms and insignia, wrote itscreed.” Such extreme
self-detachmentis also expressed by George Kraft, Campbell’sfellowartist,alter-ego, and traducer. For when Kraft is informed that the spy apparatus
he has constructed in America is comprised almost exclusively of U.S.
agents, and that the Russians have already decided to shoot him upon his
return, we are told: “Kraft thought this situation over, and schizophrenia
rescued him neatly. ‘None of this really concerns me,’ he said ‘Because
I’m a painter That’s the main thing I am.’ ”The uncanny resourcefulness of one’s consciousness in the face of guilt
or shame is not, however, always available. In extreme circumstances-such as a traumatic war incident-the consciousness either turns against
itself or goes into shock. When Captain Eliot Rosewater learns that he has
inadvertently slain three firemen (one of them a fourteen-year-old boy)
volunteering their lives to save a clarinet factory in Bavaria, he resolutely
deposits himself in the way of a n oncoming truck. When the truck stops just
in time and his men pick him up, they find that they have a living corpse-or
catatonic-on their hands. Eliot’s mental collapse is clearly a reaction to
irreconcilable guilt, and nothing less than this drastic schizophrenic
withdrawal is required to protect his already burdensome conscience. His
final breakdown in the novel occurs after an unfortunate scene with hisaristocratic father, who is infuriated by Eliot’s unwillingness or inability to
conduct himself like a Rosewater and to produce an heir for the family
fortune. Eliot is so overcome with guilt at having ruined his marriage and
thwarted his father’s hopes for him that during his father’s tirade he is
eventually compelled to cover his ears. Shortly after Senator Rosewater
departs, “he [freezes]as stiff as any corpse”; and when he finally thaws, we
learn that “he had no surface memory of the fight with his father.” WhenEliot’s repressive capacities begin to fail him, it is only a small
psychological step to his guilt-inspired hallucination of Indianapolisaflame, full-fledged schizophrenia and another bed in a mental ward.With Billy Pilgrim we are witness to a distinct movement in Vonnegut’s
fiction. For to the shell-shocked victim of World War11,schizophrenia is notsimply gross irrationality or grave mental collapse but a new andrevolutionary mode of life. To the extent that Billy is able to escape guilt
feelings inherited from the war, it is through adopting a transcendent view
of reality that sedates his troubled conscience. And freed from guilt and
anxiety generally, he can say of the Dresden massacre (asneither Campbell
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nor Rosewateris ever able to): “It was all right....Everythingis all right, and
everybody has to do exactly what he does. I learned that on Tralfamadore.”
Whether the Tralfamadorians really exist, or whether they constitute anelaborate schizophrenic fantasy, is left intentionally ambiguous by the
author, who somehow contrives to present Billy’s life as literal biography.
But ample evidence does exist to see the Tralfamadorians-and Billy’s
frequent time/space travels-as created and made “real” by an intenselydisturbed mind regularly craving release from a too-demanding reality. As
Vonnegut himself at one point concedes: “...Billy had seen the greatest
massacre in European history” and consequently needed to “re-invent’’
[himselfl and [his] universe. Science fiction was a big help.” And on the
novel’s unconventional title page the author, tongue-in-cheek, describes the
book as “somewhat in the telegraphic schizophrenic mann er of talesof the planet Tralfamadore ” According to the inhabitants ofTralfamadore (or according to Billy’s wish-fulfilling delusions about them)
all moments in life are “structured” to happen in a certain way and can in
no way be altered, so that the one thing Earthlings might profitably do is“ignore the awful times, and concentrate on the good ones.” Such advice
helps Billy to accept phlegmatically such things as the Vietnam War an
airplane crash that kills everybody but himself, his son’s teenage
delinquency, and the deaths of both his wife and himself. Having become
“unstuck in time,’’ Billy can live in past or future moments a s well as in thepresent, and the development of this strange cosmic perspective serves to
diminish his lingering feelings of guilt and personal responsibility. Yet
after all this is said, it must be added that the private world of Billy’s
imaginative schizophrenia-his massively defended fortress of illusion-is
still subject to periodic invasion from the not totally repressible reality of
his former life. Timetraveller that he is, he cannot resist returning to
moments that center on the emotionally crippling time he spent in Dresdenas a war prisoner. And the occasional turbulence of his otherwise calmed
stream-of-consciousnessis enough to overcome his Tralfamadorian poise
and lead him to weep tears of quiet hopelessness and pain.
The Tralfamadorians first appear in The Sirens o Titan, and their
creator employs them again in his fiction a decade later suggests that
what they represent is of enduring interest to him. In Sirens Winston Niles
Rumfoord finally denounces his faithful Tralfamadorian friend, Salo,
because Salo is undeniably a machine-and to Rumfoord, “to be a machine
...was to be purposeful without a shred of conscience.” Vonnegut’s own
conscience, apparently hyperactive and a constant source of disturbance,seems oddly reminiscent of Huckleberry Finn’s. For Huck, too, seems
plagued by conscience largely independent of any misdeed he may himself
be responsible for. s Huck puts it: “But that’s always the way; it don’t
make no difference whether vou do right or wrong, a person’s conscience
ain’t got no sense, and just goes for him anyway.” And whileit may only benatural for a person to harbor vague guilt feelings about surviving awartime holocaust that brutally killed almost everybody but himself, oneiscertainly a t an emotional advantage in not experiencing such guilt-as is
the case with the “enlikhteneZ’ Billy, who has learned from the
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Tralfamadorians that “every creature and plant in the Universe is amachine.” Moreover, to be able to see the human-and moral-disaster of
Dresden as “all right” would seem to be one of Vonnegut’s fondest desires.And so it is easy to comprehend why the author is attracted to the notion
that people are mere machines, wholly determined by forces of which they
have no knowledge and over which they have no control. For if one can
genuinely believe in a mechanical conception of humanity, there would
seem to be no reason why he could not simply dispense with all “irrelevant”
feelings of frustration, anguish, shame, guilt, remorse and thelike. Such, no
doubt, is the “joy’’ of mechanism. It is precisely because the
Tralfamadorians know they are devoid of free will that their lives are so
totally devoid of guilt.
It is obvious that Vonnegut envies his completely programmed
creations this “freedom”; and in Breakfast o f Champions he explores the
relative satisfactoriness of regarding humankind mechanistically. Over
and over again in this cynical and deeply pessimistic book, he offers
chemical, as opposed to moral, explanations of human behavior. Consider,
for example, these two passages:
Dw ayne certainly wasn’t alone a s far as havin g bad chemicals insideof him wascon cerned.
He had plenty of company throughout all history. In h is own lifetime for instance the people in acountry called G ermany were so full of bad ch em icals for a while th at they a ctually built factories
wh ose on ly purpose waa to kill people by the million s.
As for myselE I had come to the con clusion that there was nothing sacred about myself or
about any h um an being that we were all m achines doomed to collide and collide and collide. Forwant of anything better to do we became fans of collisions. Sometimes I wrote well about
collisions which meant I was a writing mac hine in good repair. Sometimes I wrote badly whichmeant I was a writing machine in bad repair.
After Vonnegut has fully articulated this radical viewpoint, which
systematically disencumbers humans of all responsibility for their
behavior, the immediate practical advantages of sucha perspective begin topale in the face of its ultimate moral repercussions. For the death of
individual accountability inevitably deals the death blow to one’s
humanity. And-as the author has had Eliot Rosewater proclaim earlier-
“God damn it, you’ve got to be kind,” an empassioned plea joined later in the
novel by Trout’s similarly concerned avowal th at “people can use all the
uncritical love they can get.” Regardless, tha t is, of what humans are or do,
they still have a n almost boundless capacity for hurt and suffering and, if
for tha t reason alone, merit one’s generosity and mercy. If all humans are
programmed by their chemical constitution and thus automatons, then
whether they happen to be governed by “good” chemicals or “bad”
chemicals they still deserve pity as victims. And that virtually all humans
are capable of such feelings as chan ty and compassion-as well as of
shame an d guilt-is what, finally, makes them “sacred” to the author an d
spiritually superior to the machines they invent. To renounce certain
ethical imperatives in order to be freed of humanity’s collective guilt for the
evils of history is, ultimately, not worth the exorbitant moral cost.
Conscience may plague us disproportionately for acts of little or no
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culpability, but conscience is the price we must pay for whatever dignity, or
sacredness, it is possible for us to achieve.
Vonnegut communicates this “reformed” vision of humanity inBreakfast of Champions by having Rabo Karabekian (the nonobjective
painter he heavy-handedly employs as his spokesman) pronounce: “Our
awareness is all that is alive and may be sacred in any of us. Everything else
about us is dead machinery.” This “awareness” (or “unwavering band of
light,” as both Karabekian and Vonnegut describe it) is something that, in
the end, the author is absolutely committed to uphold. And th is humanistic
commitment explains why the last of Vonnegut’s many whimsical
illustrations-a caricatural self-portrait with one huge tear streaming down
the author’s right eye-is meant, however ironically, to be understood as afinal affirmation of all that is most human. Seen from th is perspective, the
book leads naturally enough into Slapstick. This connection has already
been anticipated by Richard Giannone, in his critical study Vonnegut(1977).19 Noting the author’s poignantly expressed fondness for those
immortal slapsticks Laurel and Hardy, he observes: “They personify
human dignity born of its own ineptitude. Slapstick is peopled by the
blundering idiots and scurvy knaves of th at zany world, and their perpetual
blundering explains th at our humanity is bound up with imperfection. This
sympathy for human shortcomings leads Vonnegut to plead for simple
kindness.” Slapstick takes place in the af termath of a holocaust, whichsuggests th at it looks back, almost nostalgically, to the author’s other
“routinely” cataclysmic fictions. For Vonnegut’s novels from the very
beginning have dealt comically-yet critically-with the exasperating
human bent for stupidity, savagery and assorted viciousness. While
Vonnegut’s indignation over this seemingly universal proclivity remains
constant in his fiction, it is also possible to trace in his works a gradually
increasing acceptance of flawed humanity. This somewhat begrudging
movement toward acceptance and reconciliation accounts both for
Vonnegut’s consideration of humans as programmed robots (so that he
might absolve them-and himself-for otherwise blameworthy acts) andfor his ultimate rejection of this mechanistic view so that he might salvage
from the moral wreckage of history some relic of human dignity or
sacredness). Since B r e a k f a s t o f C h a m p i o n s resolves (though
paradoxically) many of the conflicts th at have provided Vonnegut’s novels
with their tension and drama, it is fitting to close this study with the
author’s description there of his favorite mouthpiece, Kilgore Trout:
But his head no longer sheltered ideas of how things could be and should be on the planet, a s
opposed to how they really were. There was only one way for the Earth to be, he thought: the way
it was.
Notes
‘David Standish, “Playboy Interview.” Playboy 20 July 1973), 70. This interview has been
reprinted in Vonnegut’s collection of writings, Wampeters Foma and Granfalloons New York:
Delacorte, 1974).
:Joe David Bellamy, ed., The New Fiction: Interviews with Innovative Fiction Writers
Urbana: Univ. of Illinois Press, 1974).pp. 202-203.
8/13/2019 Vol 4 Issue 4 1981 Leon F. Seltzer - Dresden and Vonnegut's Creative Testament of Guilt
?“Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.: The Canary in a Cathouse,” in The Vonnegut Statement. eds. Jerome
4Kurt Vonnegut:Fantasist o Fire and Ice (Bowling Green, Ohio: Popular Press, 1972),p. ix.
“he Bright Book of Life (1973; rpt. New York: Delta-Dell, 1974), p. 86
7 Kur t Vonnegut Jr. (Boston: Twayne, 1976), p. 16.
8‘‘KurtVonnegut for President: The Making of a n Academic Reputation,” in The VonnegutStatement p. 86.
91t should be noted th at this article was accepted for publication before the appearance ofJailbird (1979), and therefore does not take thi s latest of Vonnegut’s fictions into account.
However, since this novel is in many ways similar in tone and substance t the author’s other
post-Slaughterhouse-Fiveproductions, the perspective taken generally toward Breakfast ofChampions and Slapstick may be understood as including Vonnegut’s most recent fictional
undertaking as well. Moreover, Jailbird which has as its moral-political context both the
Cuyahoga Massacre (highlighted in the book’s protracted prologue) and the “disaster” or
“catastrophe” of Watergate, clearly echoes Vonnegut’s earlier works-as, likewise, does the
narrator Starbuck’s inadvertent testimony aga ins t Leland Clewes reflect the author’s enduring
fictional motif of betrayal and guilt.
Klinkowitz John Somer (New York: Dell, 1973), p. 16.
5“Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (New York: Crowell, 1972), p. 93.
‘“Slapstick New York: Delacorte, 1976), p. 6.
I‘ rom the vantage point of Dresden the basic rationali ty and responsibility of Vonnegut’s
determinedly non-partisan position is hard to ignore. For instance, writing about the invasion of
Crete he observed: “We must know the shortcomings of the British-and of ourselves-as well as
of the Germans ifwewouldcreateany kindoflastingremedy when thedangers ofthe moment are
averted.” For this and other references t Vonnegut’s contributions t The Cornell Daily Sun, I
am indebted to Robert Scholes, “Chasing a Lone Eagle: Vonnegut’s College Writing,” in TheVonnegut Statement pp. 4554. This essay originally appeared in Summary 1 ( 2, 1971), 35-40.
‘2Slaughterhouse-Fiue1969; r p t New York: Delta-Dell, 1970), pp. 2, 12.’“‘A Talk with Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.,” in The Vonnegut Statement p. 115.
““Chasing a Lone Eagle,” p. 46.
”The Eden Express: A Personal Account o f Schizophrenia (New York: Praeger, 1975),p. 120.
’“See God Bless You M r . Rosewater (1965; rpt. New York: Delta-Dell, 1968). pp. 120-121.
(“Sons of suicide seldom do well. Characteristically, they find life lacking a certain zing.They
tend t feel more rootless th an most.. They are squeamishly incurious about the pas t and
numbly certain about the future t his grisly extent: they suspect tha t they, too,will probably kill
themselves.”) See also p. 159. (“Sons of suicides often think of killing themselves a t the end ofthe
day, when their blood sugar is low.”).
’7“Playboy nterview,” p. 216.
’“Fora fuller discussion of the father and son theme in Vonnegut’s fiction, see Schatt’s Kur t
lgVonnegut:A Preface to His Novels (Port Washington, New York: Kennikat , 1977),p. 119.Vonnegut Jr. pp. 26-27, 128130.
NOTE: I would like to acknowledge Cleveland State University for the Senior Research Award
that facilitated work on this article.
Leon F. Seltzer, till recentlya specialistin American fiction, taughtat Queens College, CUNY, for
three years and a t Cleveland State University-where the present article was supported by a
Senior Research Grant-for eight years. In spring 1978, Dr. Seltzer resigned his tenure topursuea
second Ph. D., and a new career, in clinical psychology at the University of Cincinnati. His
literary-critical publications include The Vision o Melville and Conrad (1970), and articles on
Melville, Conrad, Dreiser, Hemingway, Faulkner (2), and Heller.