No es frecuente que la sociedad de la postguerra suscite en el escritor el uso de un tono amable y cálido. Antes bien, encontramos auténticos maestros del gris oscuro casi negro. Kurt Vonnegut es una de las grandes excepciones, pues no abandona un profundo pesimismo sobre la condición humana, casi cercano a Schopenhauer, pero con un tono indonfundible de guasa y recochineo, rico en sarcasmos, que despierta las delicias de sus admiradores, entre los que me encuentro.

Si en "Matadero cinco" Vonnegut se despachaba agusto con el militarismo, "Barbazul" se erige como una crítica feroz contra el mundo del arte, concretamente el del expresionismo abstracto, sin dejar de lado la reflexión humanista sobre los conflictos bélicos (nobleza obliga). Por sus párrafos, desfilan mediocres que se disfrazan de artistas incomprendidos, genios confundidos con mediocres, el divismo de los mimados por el stablishment y los gustos populares... y ninguno se salva de la pluma de Vonnegut, aunque muestre cierta predilección por los fracasados.

Es imposible analizar la estructura y el estilo de esta obra sin establecer paralelismos evidentes con la citada "Matadero cinco". Ambas presentan una narración no lineal y de carácter fragmentario, pero en "Matadero cinco" es muy complicado establecer una línea temporal, algo que no sucede en "Barbazul", donde las disgresiones son el principal motor de la mayor parte de los saltos temporales, lo que da un mayor realismo frente a los "viajes astrales" de Billy Pilgrim. El estilo, sobre todo de los diálogos y, en menor medida, de las reflexiones, del joven Rabo Karabekian recuerda a las del Pilgrim soldado, un candor de juventud naïf, adquiriendo un mayor pesimismo cuando la perspectiva cambia a la del Karabekian viejo y recluido. En cualquier caso, es un estilo desenfadado, fresco y sin demasiados retoricismos.

Adoro a Vonnegut. Hace falta más mala leche de este tipo en la literatura actual.

I never thought I could love another Vonnegut book as much as I love Slapstick but Bluebeard happily proved me wrong. 10/10 will read again.

Я не знаю, що написати.
Мене підняло та гепнуло об реальність.

Kurt Vonnegut's Bluebeard is the faux-autobiography of a fictional painter, one of the Modern Expressionists who might gave been in Pollock's circle. A failed one. Convinced by a new friend (frenemy?) to write his memoirs, he embark on a literary journey that is at once slapdash - recursive, redundant, structureless and that he admittedly turns into a diary - and completely riveting. How WOULD a painter WRITE? In this case, not from one corner to the next in sequences, but a little bit here, filling in details there, etc. and so if this book is about anything, it's about Process. The painter's, the writer's, the process of life itself. A mirror of his own work, he goes from copyist, to trend-follower, to erased has-been, to raconteur, keeping at arm's reach the secret he's keeping in his potato barn/studio (the root of the title, referencing the pirate's secret room). In Vonnegut fashion, the prose is breezy, the leitmotifs abound (compare art erasure to the Armenian genocide, for example), and the tone ironic. I'd been too long since I'd picked up a Vonnegut; I won't do that again.

Funny, sad, strange and thoughtful book. The two-narrative structure, past and present, worked well and I loved the narrator's voice, the historical details, insights and opinions, and all the side characters. I expect I'll re-read this one.

Here are a few of the passages I highlighted:

One would soon go mad if one took such coincidences too seriously. One might be led to suspect that there were all sorts of things going on in the Universe which he or she did not thoroughly understand.

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“After all that men have done to the women and children and every other defenseless thing on this planet, it is time that not just every painting, but every piece of music, every statue, every play, every poem and book a man creates, should say only this: ‘We are much too horrible for this nice place. We give up. We quit. The end!’”

---

Fiasco in which a person causes total destruction of own work and reputation through stupidity, carelessness or both.

the Abstract Expressionists cavort and commit suicide, whilst an old geezer looks back on them fondly... from the distance and protection of old geezer-dom. yet finally, he (the geezer) is able to both kill and honor them. in a potato barn. on Long Island.