Slapstick, or Lonesome No More!

( 41 )


Slapstick presents an apocalyptic vision as seen through the eyes of the current King of Manhattan (and last President of the United States), a wickedly irreverent look at the all-too-possible results of today’s follies. But even the end of life-as-we-know-it is transformed by Kurt Vonnegut’s pen into hilarious farce—a final slapstick that may be the Almighty’s joke on us all.

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Slapstick presents an apocalyptic vision as seen through the eyes of the current King of Manhattan (and last President of the United States), a wickedly irreverent look at the all-too-possible results of today’s follies. But even the end of life-as-we-know-it is transformed by Kurt Vonnegut’s pen into hilarious farce—a final slapstick that may be the Almighty’s joke on us all.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Some of the best and most moving Vonnegut.”—San Francisco Chronicle

“Both funny and sad . . . just about perfect.”—Los Angeles Times
“Imaginative and hilarious . . . a brilliant vision of our wrecked, wacked-out future.”—Hartford Courant
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385334235
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/28/1999
  • Pages: 288
  • Sales rank: 194,867
  • Product dimensions: 5.24 (w) x 7.98 (h) x 0.60 (d)

Meet the Author

Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut was a master of contemporary American literature. His black humor, satiric voice, and incomparable imagination first captured America's attention in The Sirens of Titan in 1959 and established him as "a true artist" with Cat's Cradle in 1963. He was, as Graham Greene declared, "one of the best living American writers.” Mr. Vonnegut passed away in April 2007.


Born in 1922, Vonnegut grew up in Indianapolis, Indiana. His architect father suffered great financial setbacks during the Depression and was unemployed for long stretches of time. His mother suffered from mental illness and eventually committed suicide in 1944, a trauma that haunted Vonnegut all his life. He attended Cornell in the early 1940s, but quit in order to enlist in the Army during WWII.

Vonnegut was shipped to Europe, fought in the Battle of the Bulge, and was captured behind enemy lines and incarcerated in a German prison camp. As a POW, he witnessed the firebombing of Dresden by Allied forces, an event of devastating magnitude that left an indelible impression on the young soldier.

After the war, Vonnegut returned home and married his high school sweetheart. In addition to two daughters and a son of their own, he and his first wife adopted three children orphaned in 1958 by the death of Vonnegut's sister Alice. (He and his second wife adopted another daughter.) The family lived in Chicago and Schenectady before settling in Cape Cod, where Vonnegut began to concentrate seriously on his writing. His first novel, the darkly dystopian Player Piano, was published in 1952 and met with moderate success. Three additional novels followed (including the critically acclaimed Cat's Cradle), but it was not until the publication of 1969's Slaughterhouse Five that Vonnegut achieved true literary stardom. Based on the author's wartime experiences in Dresden, the novel resonated powerfully in the social upheaval of the Vietnam era.

Although he is best known for his novels (a genre-blending mix of social satire, science fiction, surrealism, and black comedy), Vonnegut also wrote short fiction, essays, and plays (the best known of which was Happy Birthday, Wanda June). In addition, he was a talented graphic artist who illustrated many of his books and exhibited sporadically during his literary career. He died on April 11, 2007, after suffering irreversible brain injuries as a result of a fall.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Kurt Vonnegut
    1. Date of Birth:
      November 11, 1922
    2. Place of Birth:
      Indianapolis, Indiana
    1. Date of Death:
      April 11, 2007
    2. Place of Death:
      New York, New York

Read an Excerpt


This is the closest I will ever come to writing an autobiography. I have called it "Slapstick" because it is grotesque, situational poetry—like the slapstick film comedies, especially those of Laurel and Hardy, of long ago.

It is about what life feels like to me.

There are all these tests of my limited agility and intelligence. They go on and on.

The fundamental joke with Laurel and Hardy, it seems to me, was that they did their best with every test.

They never failed to bargain in good faith with their destinies, and were screamingly adorable and funny on that account.

. . .

There was very little love in their films. There was often the situational poetry of marriage, which was something else again. It was yet another test—with comical possibilities, provided that everybody submitted to it in good faith.

Love was never at issue. And, perhaps because I was so perpetually intoxicated and instructed by Laurel and Hardy during my childhood in the Great Depression, I find it natural to discuss life without ever mentioning love.

It does not seem important to me.

What does seem important? Bargaining in good faith with destiny.

. . .

I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best could easily be described as "common decency." I treated somebody well for a little while, or maybe even for a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in turn. Love need not have had anything to do with it.

Also: I cannot distinguish between the love I have for people and the love I have for dogs.

When a child, and not watching comedians on film or listening to comedians on the radio, I used to spend a lot of time rolling around on rugs with uncritically affectionate dogs we had.

And I still do a lot of that. The dogs become tired and confused and embarrassed long before I do. I could to on forever.

Hi ho.

. . .

One time, on his twenty-first birthday, one of my three adopted sons, who was about to leave for the Peace Corps in the Amazon Rain Forest, said to me, "You know—you've never hugged me."

So I hugged him. We hugged each other. It was very nice. It was like rolling around on a rug with a Great Dane we used to have.

. . .

Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous.

I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, "Please—a little less love, and a little more common decency."

. . .

My longest experience with common decency, surely, has been with my older brother, my only brother, Bernard, who is an atmospheric scientist in the State University of New York at Albany.

He is a widower, raising two young sons all by himself. He does it well. He has three grown-up sons besides.

We were given very different sorts of minds at birth. Bernard could never be a writer. I could never be a scientist. And, since we make our livings with our minds, we tend to think of them as gadgets—separate from our awarenesses, from our central selves.

. . .

We have hugged each other maybe three or four times—on birthdays, very likely, and clumsily. We have never hugged in moments of grief.

. . .

The minds we have been given enjoy the same sorts of jokes, at any rate—Mark Twain stuff, Laurel and Hardy stuff.

They are equally disorderly, too.

Here is an anecdote about my brother, which, with minor variations, could be told truthfully about me:

Bernard worked for the General Electric Research Laboratory in Schenectady, New York, for a while, where he discovered that silver iodide could precipitate certain sorts of clouds as snow or rain. His laboratory was a sensational mess, however, where a clumsy stranger could die in a thousand different ways, depending on where he stumbled.

The company had a safety officer who nearly swooned when he saw this jungle of deadfalls and snares and hair-trigger booby traps. He bawled out my brother.

My brother said this to him, tapping his own forehead with his fingertips: "If you think this laboratory is bad, you should see what it's like in here."

And so on.

. . .

I told my brother one time that whenever I did repair work around the house, I lost all my tools before I could finish the job.

"You're lucky," he said. "I always lose whatever I'm working on."

We laughed.

. . .

But, because of the sorts of minds we were given at birth, and in spite of their disorderliness, Bernard and I belong to artificial extended families which allow us to claim relatives all over the world.

He is a brother to scientists everywhere. I am a brother to writers everywhere.

This is amusing and comforting to both of us. It is nice.

It is lucky, too, for human beings need all the relatives they can get—as possible donors or receivers not necessarily of love, but of common decency.

. . .

When we were children in Indianapolis, Indiana, it appeared that we would always have an extended family of genuine relatives there. Our parents and grandparents, after all, had grown up there with shoals of siblings and cousins and uncles and aunts. Yes, and their relatives were all cultivated and gentle and prosperous, and spoke German and English gracefully.

. . .

They were all religious skeptics, by the way.

. . .

They might roam the wide world over when they were young, and often have wonderful adventures. But they were all told sooner or later that it was time for them to come home in Indianapolis, and to settle down. They invariably obeyed—because they had so many relatives there.

There was good things to inherit, too, of course—sane businesses, comfortable homes and faithful servants, growing mountains of china and crystal and silverware, reputations for honest dealing, cottages on Lake Maxinkuckee, along whose eastern shore my family once owned a village of summer homes.

. . .

But the delight the family took in itself was permanently crippled, I think, by the sudden American hatred for all things German which unsheathed itself when this country entered the First World War, five years before I was born.

Children in our family were no longer taught German. Neither were they encouraged to admire German music or literature or art or science. My brother and sister and I were raised as though Germany were as foreign to us as Paraguay.

We were deprived of Europe, except for what we might learn of it at school.

We lost thousands of years in a very short time—and then tens of thousands of American dollars after that, and the summer cottages and so on.

And our family became a lot less interesting, especially to itself.

So—by the time the Great Depression and a Second World War were over, it was easy for my brother and my sister and me to wander away from Indianapolis.

And, of all the relatives we left behind, not one could think of a reason why we should come home again.

We didn't belong anywhere in particular any more. We were interchangeable parts in the American machine.

. . .

Yes, and Indianapolis, which had once had a way of speaking English all its own, and jokes and legends and poets and villains and heroes all its own, and galleries for its own artists, had itself become an interchangeable part in the American machine.

It was just another someplace where automobiles lived, with a symphony orchestra and all. And a race track.

Hi ho.

. . .

My brother and I still go back for funerals, of course. We went back last July for the funeral of our Uncle Alex Vonnegut, the younger brother of our late father—almost the last of our old-style relatives, of the native American patriots who did not fear God, and who had souls that were European.

He was eighty-seven years old. He was childless. He was a graduate of Harvard. He was a retired life insurance agent. He was a co-founder of the Indianapolis Chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.

His obituary in the Indianapolis Star said that he himself was not an alcoholic.

This denial was at least partly a nice-Nellyism from the past, I think. He used to drink, I know, although alcohol never seriously damaged his work or made him wild. And then he stopped cold. And he surely must have introduced himself at meetings of A. A. as all members must, with the name—followed by this brave confession: "I'm an alcoholic."

Yes, and the paper's genteel denial of his ever having had trouble with alcohol had the old-fashioned intent of preserving from taint all the rest of us who had the same last name.

We would all have a harder time making good Indianapolis marriages or getting good Indianapolis jobs, if it were known for certain that we had had relatives who were once drunkards, or who, like my mother and my son, had gone at least temporarily insane.

It was even a secret that my paternal grandmother died of cancer.

Think of that.

. . .

At any rate, if Uncle Alex, the atheist, found himself standing before Saint Peter and the Pearly Gates after he died, I am certain he introduced himself as follows:

"My name is Alex Vonnegut. I'm an alcoholic."

Good for him.

. . .

I will guess, too, that it was loneliness as much as it was a dread of alcoholic poisoning which shepherded him into A. A. As his relatives died off or wandered away, or simply became interchangeable parts in the American machine, he went looking for new brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces and uncles and aunts, and so on. Which he found in A. A.

. . .

When I was a child, he used to tell me what to read, and then make sure I'd read it. It used to amuse him to take me on visits to relatives I'd never known I had.

He told me one time that he had been an American spy in Baltimore during the First World War, befriending German-Americans there. His assignment was to detect enemy agents. He detected nothing, for there was nothing to detect.

He told me, too, that he was an investigator of graft in New York City for a little while—before his parents told him it was time to come home and settle down. He uncovered a scandal involving large expenditures for the maintenance of Grant's Tomb, which required very little maintenance indeed.

Hi ho.

. . .

I received the news of his death over a white, push-button telephone in my house in that part of Manhattan known as "Turtle Bay." There was a philodendron nearby.

I am still not clear how I got here. There are no turtles. There is no bay.

Perhaps I am the turtle, able to live simply anywhere, even underwater for short periods, with my home on my back.

. . .

So I called my brother in Albany. He was about to turn sixty. I was fifty-two.

We were certainly no spring chickens.

But Bernard still played the part of an older brother. It was he who got us our seat on Trans World Airlines and our car at the Indianapolis airport, and our double room with twin beds at a Ramada Inn.

The funeral itself, like the funerals of our parents and of so many other close relatives, was as blankly secular, as vacant of ideas about God or the afterlife, or even about Indianapolis, as our Ramada Inn.

. . .

So my brother and I strapped ourselves into a jet-propelled airplane bound from New York City to Indianapolis. I sat on the aisle. Bernard took the window seat, since he was an atmospheric scientist, since clouds had so much more to say to him than they did to me.

We were both over six feet tall. We still had most of our hair, which was brown. We had identical mustaches—duplicates of our late father's mustache.

We were harmless looking. We were a couple of nice old Andy Gumps.

There was an empty seat between us, which was spooky poetry. It could have been a seat for our sister Alice, whose age was halfway between mine and Bernard's. She wasn't in that seat and on her way to her beloved Uncle Alex's funeral, for she had died among strangers in New Jersey, of cancer—at the age of forty-one.

"Soap opera!" she said to my brother and me one time, when discussing her own impending death. She would be leaving four young boys behind, without any mother.

"Slapstick," she said.

Hi ho.

. . .

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 41 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 41 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 11, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Arguably my favorite Vonnegut novel

    I am a HUGE Vonnegut fan and so a little biased. I've read most of his novels and I have to say this one may be my favorite. It seemed to me to be his most poignant, his deepest and softest look at the human condition. Usually Vonnegut's writing is caustic and sarcastic, a grumpy old man's grumpy view of the world and his own life. Slapstick is still caustic and sarcastic, but there is something more to it, something touching, almost frail. Reading it, I felt like I was seeing the softer side of a normally harsh but beloved grandfather. It was wonderful.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 1, 2012

    Love K.V.

    I love his writing. GREAT BOOK!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 10, 2008

    great great great

    excellent novel. By far one of vonneguts greatest work, i read it over exam week last year in high school and have been dying to re-read it but i lost it. however, vonneguts theoretical future is amazingly funny. I also liked how the story jumps around a bit, much like slaughterhouse 5.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 13, 2006

    My favorite Book

    This is not Vonnegut's most critcally acclaimed work. But I believe it to be his most intriguing and unique masterpiece. I have read 7 Vonnegut novels including Sirens, Cat's, and Slaughterhouse. And this is by far the funniest and tingled my heart strings while demanding that I crack up. Vonnegut writes about a future that is pure balderdash and is hopefully depressing. The funniest novel by the worlds most hilariously realistic author.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 22, 2000

    Slapstick review (how original...)

    Slapstick is a winner. The book is very Vonnegut, filled with odd characters and screwy plot lines. Quite a fast read, and entertaining to the very end. The novel has found its way to the top of my list of great books! A definite must read for all fans of Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 11, 2013

    ean Goranites of the BookReviewersClub reviewed the book "S

    ean Goranites of the BookReviewersClub reviewed the book "Slapstick" by Kurt Vonnegut.

    This book tells the story of a 100-year old man who is living in a large building on a dead American island. On this place, most of the buildings were destroyed and only a few people were left alive. This book tells the story of the man's life as a twin who could become a genius whenever his head was in physical contact with his twin sister.

    The book has many themes. Some of those themes include family, diplomacy, relations between countries. In other words, it touches on topics in much of our world. It also covers a lot of territory in a short period of time.

    This is a good book. All in all, he gave the book 4 stars.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2013

    Vonnegut never disappoints. Highly recommend

    I am a new Vonnegut fan. Just can't seem to get enough. Funny with lots of black comedy and satire. His characters are full and quirky, like us all. I just hope I can get my hands on every one of his books.

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  • Posted November 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:


    Probably my favorite next to Galapagos. If you are only to read one Vonnegut novel, you need to read either Slapstick or God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 4, 2005

    an exceptional piece of fiction

    i found this book to be witty, engaging, and absolutely up to par with everything else Kurt Vonnegut has written. the characters were fascinating and the story keeps you absolutely interested from start to finish. i feasted on this masterpiece in a single evening and encourage anyone else interested in a great book to do the same. hi ho!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 6, 2004

    Hard to Understand

    I read this book for a book report that I had to do,and I must say that I was very dissapointed. In the beginning of the book it was not only funny but interesting. While reading further on the book became veryHARD TO UNDERSTAND. I didnt know where he was going wiht the whole thing or where he was coming from.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 3, 2003

    A funny book, but........

    it was an excellent book, but it brought contrasting feelings to me. One, it was pretty funny.....but two, was the guy on pot when he wrote this? an odd book that brings mixed feelings

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 5, 2003

    A great read from the greatest author

    This is truly Vonnegut at his best. A great read that will take merely 2 hours of your time. Vonnegut brings to the table greatly constructed, humurous characters to deliver his message with powerful yet simple force. Terrific plot lines and unforgettable satire will keep you zipping through the pages of this wondrous read. The story is farfetch'd yet strangely familiar,with the eerie sort of truth and obviousness that Vonnegut readers love and expect. Nothing but genius here, though incredibly off the wall it is brilliant!... This Book Is My Favorite Read From The Greatest and Most Truthful Author of Our Time. Read It NOW!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 28, 2002

    certainly slapstick

    this book was hysterically funny. though it may not all sink in at once, in retrospect it makes one think about the irony and stupidity of life and society. vonnegut is a master of wit and a pure genius when it comes to sci-fi.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 30, 2001

    best author ever

    I read 'Slapstick' when i was 11 years old, and it has been one of my favorites ever since. This will always have a prominent position in my bookcase.

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    Posted April 26, 2009

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    Posted November 9, 2010

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    Posted February 3, 2009

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    Posted May 29, 2009

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    Posted November 18, 2008

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