Finished reading this Vonnegut novel a couple weeks ago. It was brilliant. I especially enjoyed how the author brought himself in and out of the narrative, interacting with the characters as though he actually were. It felt as though the story itself was written for a single reason, a confession of shame in his existence. His mother’s suicide, his own attempt, his fear of having the same bad chemicals in his brain that he gave to his main character. I wonder if he felt relief after it was written.
I hope so, but suspect not.