I have loved this book since I was young. My favorite Vonnegut by far

As you learn from its subtitle, this is the autobiography - and, as you will soon realize, also the diary - of the fictional Rabo Karabekian. In his younger years, Karabekian was an illustrator with close ties to some of the painters of the abstract expressionism movement, including Jackson Pollock and especially (the also fictional) Terry Kitchen. He was a soldier in WWII, in which he lost one of is eyes to a bomb. He had one big love and was married twice (in neither case to the before-mentioned big love).

But all this was very long ago. By the start of the book Karabekian is living in a big house and from the fortune his second wife left him after the passed away. The impetus to write the autobiography comes from a famous writer, who had just lost her husband and moves into the house immediately after Karabekian had met her on his beach.

The book is written in the belief that his entire life was a failure. He was never really loved, became estranged from his two children (in fact, he doesn't seem to know them at all), his painter-friends were mostly just suppliants and drinking buddies, and, most importantly, he didn't make really it as an artist. The only thing in which he had some sort of success was as an art collector, but this came about mostly by accident and he is hesitant to count this among his achievements.

So the book is written in this aloof and ironic style in which Karabekian portrays himself somewhat as a caricature that stumbles from one tragedy and ridicule to the next. This is certainly funny to read - not unlike Italo Calvino, Milan Kundera, Thomas Bernhard, or Umberto Eco -, but there is this subtle (or not so subtle) sadness and melancholy in his voice that makes this book quite beautiful at times. In fact, the way it comes together in the end almost brought tears to my eyes. Really, what a wonderful ending.

Rating: 3.5/5

One of my favorite Vonnegut novels. I went on a bender and read most of his books available to me in the library in the mid/late 1980s. I know I read this in early 1988 because I mentioned it in my journal from that time.

2024 reads, 12/22

“I can remember thinking that war was so horrible that, at last, thank goodness, nobody could ever be fooled by romantic pictures and fiction and history into marching to war again. Nowadays, of course, you can buy a machine gun with a plastic bayonet for your little kid at the nearest toy boutique.”

Been a bit behind on reviews (and reading in general), but I think I’m starting to get back on track. It’s been a busy few months! Starting up again with Vonnegut’s Bluebeard, I actually finished this back in April, but never got around to writing up.

Our main character is (fictional) abstract expressionist painter Rabo Karabekian, and Bluebeard is his autobiography. His parents are survivors of the Armenian genocide, and after moving to America, he serves in WWII and loses an eye. So already, Karabekian has this layered trauma of not just his own experiences in combat, but his inherited survivor’s guilt; he thus says, “everybody who is alive is a survivor, and everybody who is dead isn’t,” and because of this, “everybody alive must have the Survivor’s Syndrome.”

Having lived through the bombing of Dresden as a prisoner of war, Vonnegut is no stranger to violence. These themes of post-war trauma in America permeate through all his novels (that I’ve read so far) in some way, shape, or form; Bluebeard is no different. But another major theme not often seen in Vonnegut’s other works is the morality and subjectivity of art.

Circe Berman, a writer who stays with Karabekian (and the one who encouraged him to write his autobiography in the first place), is a perfect foil for him. She publishes young adult fiction under the pseudonym “Polly Madison” and is constantly belittled by Karabekian. She, in turn, responds that her works are being read all over the world, while the paintings of the abstract expressionists collect dust. Does art need to have a message, or meaning? Does art need a legacy, or can it only have utility in certain moments?

I believe that Karabekian is somewhat modelled after Vonnegut himself; Karabekian is an extremely talented artist, yet chooses to create these abstract paintings in lieu of realistic or “proper” paintings à la Monet or da Vinci, in the same way Vonnegut chooses to use his skills of language and humor to write these absurd sci-fi novels. It may not be a one-to-one analogy, but it can get a little meta. This is all, of course, superbly concluded by the potato barn reveal towards the end (no spoilers!).

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?”

Though this isn’t one of Vonnegut’s most famous books, Bluebeard raises some interesting questions about what it means to be an artist, and human, in a postwar, postmodern world.

Decent Vonnegut. An inspiring book to read if you are a creative.

A very middle of the road Vonnegut

Favorite quote:
“She had a life. I had accumulated anecdotes. She was home. Home was somewhere I never thought I’d be.”

Like Bret Easton Ellis but good

I love this book. That's all.