I love reading Vonnegut and hate him just as much. Reading Vonnegut is like taking tequila shots, its wonderful at the time but leaves you with a bloody awful hangover the next day*. Time and time again he reminds me that all my pretentious verbiage isn’t needed to say what I have to say. He conveys a thought with minimum fuss. Someday I will mature to that point.
Mother Night, as his other works talks about war and how the line dividing the good and the bad is not a line but more of a foggy, smoggy mid-january Delhi morning. The novel is dark, funny, gut-wrenchingly depressing and I am staying away from Vonnegut for some time just so he doesn’t trample on my chicken-heart.
I am off to reading something light, maybe Pratchett or Douglas Adams.
*Disclaimer: i have never drunk tequila, just in case soon-to-be-SO is reading this 😉