Last night I sucked it up, sat next to the window with a mug of hot chocolate, and finished Slaughterhouse-5. Maybe I've read too many war books the past few months (okay, only 2 or 3, but it feels like more). Or maybe I just have something against Vonnegut's way of writing. Or perhaps I just didn't like the tone. Whatever the reason, I just didn't like that book. I got through it because, well, I started it and wanted to finish it, but that didn't mean that I enjoyed the ride.
I partly don't understand, because even on other books that made me super depressed (Revolutionary Road comes to mind) I still enjoyed them and looked forward to reading them.
This one I really had to push through hard to get to the end. I haven't had to do that kind of pushing since Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury for my American Lit class (that one required a special trip to Cold Stone for good ice cream to get through), and even that one wasn't as bad as this.
I feel a little bad going on a tirade about this little book, especially since it's critically acclaimed and yadda yadda, and I should be enjoying the allusions and parallels and literary meanings sprinkled throughout. And I could see how a book like this could be paper-writing gold. But for right now, when it's sunny out and I want to just be in a good mood, this just didn't hit the right chord for me this time.
Yikes. This almost makes me nervous to start Catch-22. Maybe I should stick a different book in between the two war novels.
Hopefully onwards and upwards...