Vonnegut's second piece I'm getting around to (after Slaughterhouse Five) is a witty and satirical post-modernist piece that is about nothing and everything. The prose takes time to get used to, there is little to no plot to speak of, and there's no point to the novel, which Vonnegut himself indirectly admits at one point, telling us that the worst books are one which do have a lesson - because there's no such thing in real life.
BoC follows a uniquely original medley of characters and backstories who live in a town colloquially known as "the asshole of America", as they go about their everyday lives. The satire ranges from Trout's stories poking fun at how seriously we take our arbitrary notions, to pointing out ingrained and internalised sexism, racism, consumerism and even some throwaway discussions on the environment.
Vonnegut's self-insertion, the amateurish drawings on display (always prefaced with "they look something like this"), and his warped worldview make for quite the ride. Even though I can understand why some might deride this, it made for brutal, maximalist and hilariously poignant reading. You go from "how the fuck did someone think of this?" to "yeah, I'm going to hell for laughing at this" in five seconds flat, and those are the best kinds of novels, as we all know. And so on. ( )

https://fromtheheartofeurope.eu/top-books-of-1973-2-breakfast-of-champions-by-ku...

The book is about a science fiction writer, Kilgore Trout, on his way to a literary convention in a town which may or may not be Vonnegut’s original home, Indianapolis, and his violent encounter with a deranged local automobile dealer. The author himself features as an anonymous first-person viewpoint minor character, though one with godlike powers over the other characters.

It’s a frustarting book, because it combines some very incisive social commentary with some very regrettable tics; the body measurements of female characters and penis sizes of male characters are all cited, and the n-word is freely thrown around to an extent that was surely already unacceptable in 1973. Vonnegut illustrates it with hs own drawing, which are frankly childish. There are some serious messages lurking there, and some good questions asked about what it is we really expect from fictional narratives, but the book as a whole is just self-indulgent. ( )

When I looked up this book to provide a review, I found I had already given it five stars. I must have got it confused with something else when I first created a Goodreads account (possibly Bluebeard?) because I had never read this before in my life.

It rollicks along at a good pace, but I wonder if Vonnegut has lost some of his shine for me. Once upon a time I thought his capacity to tell the truth and to make sense of things by defiantly not making sense of them was groundbreaking, but I think now it's infiltrated our culture so far that this book seems a little bit...dated. He's no longer saying what no one else is brave enough to say, he's just saying stuff that comes up on Twitter all the time. Even the very sweet stuff about the human condition is pretty widely understood by politically, intellectually and socially engaged folks.

The book still stands, though, on the quality of its characters - Kilgore Trout is so sympathetic - its situations and its sense of fun. ( )

Can you believe.... this is 50 years old this year? I just happened to notice. And what an influence I'm sure it has been on so many writers. Also, I believe Vonnegut was 50 years old when he wrote this. I love the nuggets of story ideas from Kilgore Trout. It especially brings to mind the genius of Douglas Adams. I bet he loved Kurt Vonnegut. But this book is meta! It's hilarious! I love meta hilariousness! I love that Vonnegut seems to tie himself to his own books, gets so personal (even if he is using the name Philboyd Studge.) The only thing I didn't love was his use of stereotypes, especially regarding race, regardless if it is "satire" or not. If Flannery O'Connor is considered racist for writing racist characters (though to be honest, I know nothing about O'Connor's personal life), then Vonnegut would definitely be considered racist here. Certain racist words just grated after so many times, and I didn't see the point of it within the book. I also love his drawings. Especially the animals. I'm not a tattoo person, but I bet all of these drawings have existed as tattoos at some point. But also wish he had included a drawing of the 1962 Cadillac limo with a truckbed that was mentioned. I mean... this needs illustration. This is the seventh Vonnegut I have read annnnddd....
*Book #132 I have read of the '1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die' ( )

In the midwestern town of Midland City, Indiana, wealthy car dealer and widower Dwayne Hoover exists on the rim of insanity—but it will take an obscure and impoverished science fiction writer named Kilgore Trout to push Dwayne over the edge.

After being invited to the Midland City Arts Festival as their guest of honor, Trout debates whether to accept. Once he decides to go, he first hitchhikes to New York City to find copies of his novels. Trout hates his own books to much that he keeps none at home. He intends to embarrass the organizers and attendees of the festival by reading his lowbrow stories.

After being abducted, beaten, and robbed in New York, Trout hitchhikes his way to Midland City. All the while, Hoover grows more unstable. He becomes argumentative, insulting, and isolated. Filthy and haggard, Trout arrives at the Midland City Holiday Inn—also owned by Hoover—and takes a seat in the lounge where pretentious guests of the festival clash with a few of the locals. Ignoring all of this, Hoover sits alone in a corner lost in his own deranged thoughts and ignoring his estranged homosexual son, Bunny, the lounge piano player.

When the bartender turns on the black lights in the lounge, his jacket glows a brilliant white, as does the waitress’s outfit—and Kilgore Trout’s shirt. Beguiled by this, Hoover approaches Trout, resting his chin on the writer’s shoulder and demanding the answer to life. He snatches up a copy of Trout’s novel, Now It Can Be Told, and speed reads it on the spot. After which, all hell breaks loose.

Throughout the story, told in third-person omniscient, Vonnegut observes the events with his trademark razor wit and dry humor, reminding the reader that he is the creator of this story, explaining some of his decisions, and veering off on hilarious tangents.

The above summary is about one-fifth of what happens in this surreal satire that addresses themes of sex, pollution, racism, mental health, desperation, success, and hypocrisy complete with illustrations drawn by Vonnegut. ( )