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‘’Lethal injection and warfare are forms of entertainment,’’ writes the eighty-three year old Kurt Vonnegut of today’s America; and who, with the exception of a couple of Newsnight pundits, would care to argue?  

Dismissed (by those who really who ought to know better) as nothing more than a pastiche persuasion of the author’s finer/former-self, there’s no denying that A Man Without A Country ceases to come close to the fictional zenith of  Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.  But then not many books do!  

Moreover, the former does tell it exactly as it (unfortunately) is, right here, right now (and I ain’t talkin’ Van fuckin’ Halen).  Be it by way of a tellurian truth: ‘’I know very few people who are dreaming of a world for their grandchildren,’’ or a juxtapositional lust for life: ‘’I hate H-bombs and the Jerry Springer Show.’’

Indeed, it might be argued that Vonnegut’s optimistic verve has never been more crucial – especially when placed amid such territorial pissings of aforementioned doom’n’gloom.  For who else would bequeath us with such a soul-curdling swathe of extremity as: ‘’Our President is a Christian.  So was Adolf Hitler?’’  

Nick Hornby it ain’t.  

Think Mark Twain on acid and you’re getting close.  Read and comprehend and you’ll be getting closer still.  A Man Without A Country is a terribly bold and brave book, written by a man who could so easily rest upon his literary  laurels.  But then we are talking Kurt Vonnegut – a writer for whom the truth is as imperative as life itself.  

God bless his weary typewriter.

David Marx
A Man Without A Country
(A Memoir of Life in George W. Bush’s America)
By Kurt Vonnegut - Bloomsbury £14.99
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