This book orders chaos with words and leaves you confused in a chaotic world. I love it. ( )

I absolutely loved his unconventional writing style.
Nothing was told in the same order in which the events occurred and the drawings were elementary at best but added to the hilarity. ( )

I probably would have liked this better had I read it when I was 13 or 14, but now, while I can spot much that is clever in it, this book feels dated and too geared towards adolescent boys. I will still try Cat's Cradle, though not for awhile. ( )

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. ( )