[…] He wants to tell us things: It is not the fittest who survive – it is
merely those who happen to survive who survive. The earth is a
''fragile habitat'' that our big brains have failed to take care of. We
must hope for flippers and beaks – or nothing at all. We are all,
finally, being too mean to one another. ''I'll tell you what the human
soul is,'' a character in ''Galapagos'' says. ''It's the part of you that knows when your brain isn't working right.'' […]
during our catastrophically idiotic war in Vietnam, the music kept
getting better and better and better. We lost that war, by the way.
Order couldn’t be restored in Indochina until the people kicked us out.
to music. It makes practically everybody fonder of life than he or she
would be without it. Even military bands, although I am a pacifist,
always cheer me up. And I really like Strauss and Mozart and all that,
but the priceless gift that African Americans gave the whole world when
they were still in slavery was a gift so great that it is now almost
the only reason many foreigners still like us at least a little bit.
That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift
called the blues. All pop music today – jazz, swing, be-bop, Elvis
Presley, the Beatles, the Stones, rock-and-roll, hip-hop, and on and on
– is derived from the blues.
wonderful writer Albert Murray, who is a jazz historian and a friend of
mine among other things, told me that during the era of slavery in this
country – an atrocity from which we can never fully recover – the
suicide rate per capita among slave owners was much higher than the
suicide rate among slaves.
says he thinks this was because slaves had a way of dealing with
depression, which their white owners did not: They could shoo away Old
Man Suicide by playing and singing the Blues. He says something else
which also sounds right to me. He says the blues can’t drive depression
clear out of a house, but can drive it into the corners of any room
where it’s being played. So please remember that.
went to an overachiever’s high school in Indianapolis, which no longer
exists. It was called Shortridge High School, and since 1906 had a
daily paper. I was an editor of the Shortridge Daily Echo, and
I learned to write. It was beneficial, really, because it made me aware
immediately of the response of readers. You publish something people
don’t like and you hear about it right away.
I knew how to
paste up a front page and write headlines. At the City News Bureau, we
phoned in our stories and we phoned in leads. The first thing you’d say
is who, what, when, where and why. In writing fiction, that’s what I
always did. I made sure the reader knew at once where he was, too.
Fiction is a game for two. You have to make it possible for a reader to
But I want to– think about answering this one. You write "what can be
said to our young people now that psychopathic personalities — which is
to say persons without consciences, without senses of pity or shame —
have taken all the money in the treasuries of our government and
corporations and made it their own?" What can we say to younger people
who have their whole lives ahead of them?
From the University of Chicago– as did Saul Bellow, incidentally. But
anyway, one thing I found out was that we need extended families. We
need gangs. And, of course, if they're tribes and clans and so forth
have been dispersed by the industrial revolution by people looking for
work wherever they can find it. And a nuclear family, a man, a woman
and kids and a dog and cat is no survival scheme at all. Horribly
[…] Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to
reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This
makes them freaks in the world of writers, since almost all of
the other ink-stained wretches in that world reveal a lot about
themselves to readers. We call these revelations, accidental and
intentional, elements of style. […]
[…] One thing which has not changed is that none of us, no matter what
continent or island or ice cap, asked to be born in the first place,
and that even somebody as old as I am, which is 80, only just got here.
There were already all these games going on when I got here. … An apt
motto for any polity anywhere, to put on its state seal or currency or
whatever, might be this quotation from the late baseball manager Casey
Stengel, who was addressing a team of losing professional athletes:
“Can’t anybody here play this game?” […]
A painter thinks, "I can't fix the whole planet, but I can at least
make this square of canvas what it ought to be." And a sculptor thinks
the same thing about a lump of clay or marble. A writer thinks the same
about a piece of paper, conventionally eleven inches long and
eight-and-a-half inches wide. […]
[…] I put my big question about life to my biological son Mark. Mark is a pediatrician, and author of a memoir, The Eden Express.
It is about his crackup, straightjacket and padded cell stuff, from
which he recovered sufficiently to graduate from Harvard Medical School.
Dr. Vonnegut said this to his doddering old dad: “Father, we are
here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.” So I
pass that on to you. Write it down, and put it in your computer, so you
can forget it. […]
Too many ditties make me go bop. The question implies listening to said song for a while: time-tested, bad-mood-approved. This week's top-of-mind is Terence Blanchard's "Mo' Better Blues," with the O'Jays' "Backstabbers" or Bobby Womack's "If You Think You're Lonely Now (Wait Until Tonight)" as close seconds.
I've also been crushing on the corn-syrupy sweetness of Corinne Bailey Rae's "Put Your Records On."