Kurt Vonnegut has a
tendency to write morbid and structurally odd stories, often poking a satirical
finger at the deep-seated conceits and cornerstones of American culture and
civilization. God Bless You, Mr Rosewater
is certainly morbid, and it certainly tackles one of the most essential aspects
of the 20th Century American identity – Capitalism and the
distribution of wealth – but in terms of structure and reliance on science
fiction elements it is much more akin to an ordinary novel than any other
Vonnegut work I have yet encountered. For this reason it is an incredible piece
of story-telling.
The plot revolves around the immense inheritance of the
Rosewater family, one of the wealthiest families in America. The latest
custodian of this fortune, an alcoholic by the name of Eliot Rosewater, is
exhibiting peculiar behaviour – dissatisfaction with the high-life, adoration
of ordinary working-class citizens – especially volunteer firemen – and an uncontrollable
urge to have a benevolent love for the poor, the downtrodden, and the unwanted people of society. These odd tendencies draw the attention of
Norman Mushari, a greedy lawyer who intends to prove that Eliot is insane so
that the fortune passes to a distant branch of the Rosewater family, thereby
allowing Mushari to take a slice of it for himself. The story concerns itself
with the minutiae of the lives of these characters; of Eliot’s turbulent relationship
with his wife, of his setting up camp in his family’s ancestral hometown to
solve everybody’s troubles with unquestioning kindness and money, of his conservative father’s disappointment
in him, and of the lives of the other branch of the Rosewater family
halfway across the continent.
The subject-matter is incredibly dark, and as relevant today
as it was fifty years ago. Eliot is fighting a losing battle against his own
sense of guilt; at having so much, in a time and place where so many other
people have so little. He is truly obsessed with using his inheritance, an
unending stockpile of money, to help out the poor and unwanted of a backwater
American town. His single-minded effort to have absolute love for everybody and
everything is admirable, but now that we look at it we find it is also
completely insane. Eliot has abandoned the high life; he has abandoned his arse
of a father, and he abandons his loving wife, because he wants to share his
love with as many people as possible – especially the unloved and the poor. The
only passion in his life, other than his mad devotion to the people, seems to
be the work of science-fiction writers. When he drunkenly gate-crashes a
science-fiction convention he shares a few words with the assembled authors:
“And it occurred to
him that a really good science-fiction book had never been written about money.
‘Just think of all the wild ways money is passed around on Earth!’ [Eliot] said. ‘You don’t have to go to the Planet Tralfamadore
in Anti-Matter Galaxy 508 G to find weird creatures with unbelievable powers.
Look at the powers of an Earthling millionaire! Look at me! I was born naked,
just like you, but my God, friends and neighbors, I have thousands of dollars a
day to spend!’
He paused to make a very impressive
demonstration of his magical powers, writing a smeary check for two hundred
dollars for every person there.
‘There’s fantasy for you,’ he said. ‘And you go to
the bank tomorrow, and it will all come true. It’s insane that I should be able
to do such a thing, with money so important.’”
[Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, Vintage, 1992, pg. 14]
And there in
essence is Vonnegut’s argument for writing this particular book. Only this is
not a happy tale about how one good millionaire could do so much good for so
many people; rather, it shows how the weight of this fortune is crushing the
sorry man and turning him into a helpless fool, and how his efforts to help his fellow humans, one by one, are more
or less futile. The people of the town where he sets up shop are backwards,
uncaring and unlovable, and they don’t fully understand Eliot’s kindness for them
or his desire to help them. Some are bewildered, refusing his money out of pride;
others grovel at their saviour, and hunt flies in Eliot’s office in a pathetic endeavour
to show gratitude; some madly believe him to be their only friend, and continuously phone
him up in the middle of the night just for somebody to talk to. It’s almost
heartbreaking.
Structurally we have here an unusual Vonnegut book. Unusual
because it seems very much like a book ought to behave, with a beginning,
middle and end. It was written between Cat’s
Cradle (1963) and Slaughterhouse Five
(1969), so you would expect some wacky elements to creep in, but overall
this novel very much keeps its feet planted in the here and now. There are no odd narrative gimmicks,
there aren’t any silly pictures strewn throughout the paragraphs or asterisks
over a character’s name telling you that they will soon die; we aren’t told the
ending right at the beginning, and the ending itself provides something of a
satisfying conclusion. If anything, the conclusion of the book is something of a
punch-line, and it did indeed make me laugh.
Of
other laughs to found in this novel, find them where you can. It’s a tragic and
effective piece of writing, and can be so grim that you might have to laugh to
prevent you from hurling yourself off the nearest bridge. As with the sci-fi
label, I sometimes find it impossible to understand why they sometimes call Vonnegut’s
works humorous. They are dark, sick works of the blackest comedy you could ever
find, if you insist on calling them that. General satire is a better label, for
these novels blow up specific elements of our world which we can all recognise
in order to make an insightful comment about ourselves. One can say this is a
satire without comedy, but be prepared that you might laugh, or you will end up
hating yourself for it.
One
of the strongest features of Vonnegut’s writing, something that makes it
accessible to anybody and everybody, is how sparing he is with it. Nobody likes
a dense old lump of prose with great sprawling paragraphs that cover page after
page after page – and if they tell you otherwise, then they are intellectual
snobs and are most definitely lying. Vonnegut’s works are about as
reader-friendly as I have ever found, being kindly broken up into short,
concise sections, each one crafted with precision to make a certain point. This
does mean that sometimes Vonnegut will stop a speech, a description or the text
of a letter right in the middle when he feels it has been going on too long, or
when he feels that a point has been made, and this can be jarring. Yet overall
it is fairly good as a narrative technique, and makes the novel really very
readable. Coupled with the fact that it is quite a quick read – 167 short
pages – this means that the book is pretty much a one-weekend deal. Go ahead
and do it.
In
conclusion, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater
is an effective and pertinent piece of writing from Kurt Vonnegut, and stands
out amongst his works. As Vonnegut continues to be one of my favourite writers,
this example is very much what I expect to be delivered when I open up something bearing his name. It was what I expected, yet it still surprised and enthralled me. Definitely
seek this one out if you want something cathartic, relevent to the world today, or else different from the usual dross you might find on a charity bookshop shelf.
Bibliowater
Vonnegut, Kurt. God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. London:
Vintage. (1992 [First published 1965])
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