2-26-2026
‘Timequake’ by Kurt Vonnegut
Timequake was the last Vonnegut novel that I have not read at least the first fifty pages of, and probably the ninth book of Vonnegut’s I’ve read. His book Cat’s Cradle was the first book that moved me, maybe the second after The Sun Also Rises. Vonnegut’s books are probably more responsible for pushing and then broadly defining my tastes than any external influence that wasn’t a family member. His books are the only reason I enjoy science-fiction today. So much of his own personal philosophy has defined my own ethos; his work always grounds me, almost every story he’s written being about coming to terms with one's own inconsequential existence in the universe. This might seem like an especially nihilist interpretation, but I choose to look at the other side of that coin - that, if nothing we do matters, then nothing we do can leave a lasting scar.
I love Vonnegut’s work, but have found some of his later novels to drag, his characters and how they relate to their world being so familiar to me, even if the character and their world have just been introduced to me. I’ve read every book of his before Slapstick, and have started every book of his after, except for Timequake. After the first ten chapters or so, as he transitioned into more autobiographical sections for every fictional section, I was drawn - it took me six months to read the first fifty pages, and yesterday to read the last one-hundred-fifty.
Returning to Vonnegut after going half-a-decade at least since the last time I’ve finished one of his stories for the first time (a time in which I’ve reread Cat’s Cradle at least thrice and Siren’s of Titan once) felt exactly like reuniting with a beloved member of your extended family after decades away from each other; becoming a sincere and heartfelt dive into his family and his friends and his relationship with them was like catching up. I realized that, for how important Vonnegut’s books were to my late adolescence, I knew very little about his life - or, rather, didn’t quite know what he incorporated into his work was based on his real life, what characters or settings were direct parallels.
He is so succinct and so profound all while speaking so deceptively doltishly; he reminds me so much of my grandfather and my father to a secondary degree. The ways in which he thinks he’s funny fall so oafishly flat to me that I can’t help but become more endeared to him, in similar ways to which my grandpa would try to relate to me by being silly well past the age that it produced a genuine laugh from me. I say Vonnegut’s work defined my own ethos and the way in which I answer almost any theory, but can’t quite tell whether that’s the case or if I happened upon a strikingly similar rationale independently - so much of Vonnegut’s messaging mimics the way my dad thinks, which he unconsciously passed on to me, that I think I would come to similar conclusions even if I had never read a word of his, as my dad had already came to similar conclusions, and I had to introduce my dad to Vonnegut’s work (the total sum of which he binged within a month, and then wouldn’t shut up about).
I haven’t read any of his strictly non-fiction work, and am not sure how much of it consists of autobiographical stories, but getting some clear insight into my favorite author’s favorite people - at least who I gathered as being real people - felt like the first piece of Vonnegut’s work that was written for pure fan service. I’m so happy he had so many loved ones, he had so much family and so many of them that he raised. Upon reading the epilogue, and realizing that the book was a tribute to his late brother, who died five months before Timequake was published, and who a sizable portion of the book was centered around, I was floored. I couldn’t help but once more think of my grandfather, and his dad, and all those of their shared generations and just what has been lost to the world with their collective passing. They took with them a sort of constitutional magnanimity that is so rare to come across anymore and seemed to be universal to everyone born before the second half of the 20th century. Maybe we have it too easy, or our experiences are too varied to find total commonality with one another, though I still try to.
Timequake, in retrospect, is circled around the death of Vonnegut’s siblings, and, in further retrospect, his own death, which would come to pass ten years later. Certain aspects of the novel read as premonitions. The novel as a whole reads as his good-bye to his readers - whether he knew he wouldn’t publish another novel in his lifetime or not at the time, I have no way of knowing, but his sending off of his self-insert Kilgore Trout with a sudden reversal of fortunes, seemingly as a subtle nod to his own fortunes (fortunes he managed to find in the face of tragedy), will stand as a fitting bow to wrap around an astronaut-sized career.