The issue of the orbital patterns of moons and planets and suns is quite apropos considering the book that I've been reading this past week. Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut is the third book I've read in 2015. It was a fantastic book and I know this because as soon as I read the last page I closed my eyes and wished that I could travel back in time and kill Kurt Vonnegut and write this book myself instead. I don't react this way after most books. I don't fantasize about the time-warp homicide of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I don't daydream about the temporal-rift murder of John Steinbeck. These are great authors and there books are among my favorites. Sirens of Titan is not my favorite book of all time, but I wish that I had written it. What does that say about me?
I think it says that we can find greatness in the mirror image of ourselves, but we can also find greatness outside of this mirror image as well. In other words, I believe that our dreams and hopes and aspirations are only a single avenue towards the true and the beautiful, and that it is possible to be inspired and to find greatness and wonder in the pathways that were previously unimagined and unexplored. It's just striking when you stumble upon someone who has so accurately captured the beauty in your own mind, who so expertly captures your thoughts, fears, fantasies, and dreams. It's striking when you find that you are not alone in your pathway through life, that people have traveled there before you and, likely, people will travel there again.
Kurt Vonnegut writes in what is often described as the "style of black humor". I don't see anything black about the humor, except for the occasional moment where something tragic happens and Vonnegut perhaps doesn't donate the socially prescribed amount words or time to reflection and mourning. But for the most part, his humor is light-hearted and vibrant, jumping, like a child. Surely this book is less "black" than Slaughterhouse Five. I thought it was fun, but not without gravity. It doesn't take itself too seriously, which allows it to ask questions which are perhaps more serious than what you find in other books.
At the end of the day, this book is a story of a man who finds meaning in his life. And this story is about the fact that finding meaning is not always meaningful in and of itself. It is a story about the ultimate questions in life, and how the answers to those questions are not always the answers that we expect, or the answers that we feel we need. I think, at its core, this book is about the irreverence of life, and human life in particular. Human life is rare in the universe, exceedingly rare. And celebrating life, even life without meaning, will perhaps grant us a clearer view of the universe, at the end of the day, than sacrificing everything for the sake of meaning.
Additionally, this story is rather circular, and ends very much where it started, which satisfies a part of my reading conscience that is still child-like, full of wonder, and which appreciates a good fairy tale with a neat and organized ending. There is still a part of me, I suppose, which prefers a story that sweeps me off my feet, carries me to places far and wide, before returning me to the safety of my home. Like a good bed time story. Like returning home from a long and exhausting trip. Like pushing outwards against the cool expanse of your sheets, before retracting, withdrawing, and falling asleep.
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