John Freeman

Ever since he made his debut in 1952 with "Player Piano," a novel about people on a fictional planet controlled by a computer called EPICAC, Kurt Vonnegut has resurfaced every few years to remind us--in fiction or in memoirs--that technology should not be trusted, that civilization is a disease and that America's lethal military machine is a gun just itching to go off.

Vonnegut has been holding his tongue for five years now, and his latest book, "A Man Without a Country," reads like the work of a man who feels he has held back too long. "We are killing this planet as a life-support system with poisons," writes the 82-year-old novelist. "Everybody knows it, and practically nobody cares."

"A Man Without a Country" organizes Vonnegut's complaints into twelve chapters on topics as diverse as sex and humanism. Each one begins with a silkscreen image of some aphorism. "Evolution is so creative," says one. "That is how we got giraffes." No other American humorist seesaws from gravity to gobbledygook this effectively. Life for Vonnegut is deadly serious, but the best way to deal with fear is to laugh right back at it.

A Man Without a Country

Kurt Vonnegut

Seven Stories Press, 146 pages, $23.95

(2005-10-04)

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Nonfiction Review
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