Armageddon In Retrospect - Kurt Vonnegut [1]
One of his favorite jokes was about a guy who was smuggling wheelbarrows. Every day for years and years a customs agent carefully searched through this guy’s wheelbarrow.
Finally, when he was about to retire, the customs agent asked the guy, “We’ve become friends. I’ve searched your wheelbarrow every day for many years. What is it you’re smuggling?”
“My friend, I am smuggling wheelbarrows.”
Kurt would often laugh so hard at his own jokes that he would end up bent in half, looking up with his head in his lap. If it started a coughing fit, it could get a little scary.
When I complained about being paid fifty dollars for an article that had taken me a week to write, he said I should take into account what it would have cost me to take out a two-page ad announcing that I could write.
Anyone who wrote or tried to write was special to Kurt. And he wanted to help. More than once I heard him talking slowly and carefully to drunks who managed to get him on the phone about how to make a story or a joke, the wheelbarrow, work.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know.”
When Kurt wrote, he was setting out on a quest. He knew, because it had happened before, that if he could keep the feet moving, he might stumble over something good and work it and work it and make it his own. But as many times as it happened, Kurt didn’t have much self-confidence. He worried that every good idea he got might be his last and that any apparent success he had had would dry up and blow away.
He worried that he had skinny legs and wasn’t a good tennis player.
He had a hard time letting himself be happy, but couldn’t quite hide the glee he got from writing well.
The unhappiest times in his life were those months and sometimes a whole year when he couldn’t write, when he was “blocked.” He’d try just about anything to get unblocked, but he was very nervous and suspicious about psychiatry. In my early-to-mid-twenties he let it slip that he was afraid that therapy might make him normal and well adjusted, and that would be the end of his writing. I tried to reassure him that psychiatrists weren’t nearly that good.
“If you can’t write clearly, you probably don’t think nearly as well as you think you do,” he told me. If you ever think something he wrote was sloppy, you might be right, but just to be sure, read it again.
A little kid coming of age in Indiana in the Depression decides he wants to be a writer, a famous writer, and that’s what ends up happening. What are the odds? He threw a lot of spaghetti up against the wall and developed a keen sense of what was going to stick.
When I was sixteen, he couldn’t get a job teaching English at Cape Cod Community College. My mother claimed that she went into bookstores and ordered his books under a false name so the books would at least be in the stores and maybe someone would buy them. Five years later he published Slaughterhouse-Five and had a million-dollar multi-book contract. It took some getting used to. Now, for most people looking back, Kurt’s being a successful, even famous, writer is an “of course” kind of thing. For me it looks like something that very easily might have not happened.
He often said he had to be a writer because he wasn’t good at anything else. He was not good at being an employee. Back in the mid-1950s, he was employed by Sports Illustrated, briefly. He reported to work, was asked to write a short piece on a racehorse that had jumped over a fence and tried to run away. Kurt stared at the blank piece of paper all morning and then typed, “The horse jumped over the fucking fence,” and walked out, self-employed again.
I’ve never known a person less interested