I in the Sky

Modern writers often bend genre and blur the lines between more traditional distances between the text and the reader (looking at narrative ingenuity).

I in the Sky

The narrator has become ambiguous. Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five is a war narrative unlike any other; it is a mockery of order and a denunciation of the human ego. Though the author himself originally narrates the book, the second chapter heralds a new narrator, as we are introduced to Billy Pilgrim—the mellow and very much hapless protagonist in Vonnegut’s story. Chapter by chapter, we accompany Billy through the Second World War, sporadically traveling through time to witness vignettes of his life. Throughout the story, readers are reminded of their earthling ignorance, left to ponder the narrator’s identity and his relevance to Billy Pilgrim’s journey. Traditionally, there is an established distance between a third-person omniscient narrator and the readers, which—to my experience—is maintained consistently throughout the novel. However, through his ingenious manipulations of the narrative, Vonnegut, monarch of the uncommon, consistently alters the dynamic of the narrator—reader relationship.

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Listen. Readers tend to perceive omniscient narrators as god-like entities, with the power to observe and see through all—an objective, all-knowing force. However, manipulations of tone and inclusion of small details have an ambiguating effect on the narrator-reader relationship. “Also, Barbara and her husband were having to look after Billy's business interests, which were considerable, since Billy didn't seem to give a damn for business any more. All this responsibility at such an early age made her a bitchy flibbertigibbet.” (Vonnegut, 36) Aside from the brazen tone employed by the narrator, the slang diction—particularly the term “bitchy flibbertigibbet”—removes the objectivity that we associate with the narrator. Thus, we transition from seeing the narrator as an impartial force, to a sentient being with convictions and prejudices. Suddenly we feel as though we might relate to the narrator. A military surgeon would have admired the clinical fidelity of the artist's rendition of all Christ's wounds-the spear wound, the thorn wounds, the holes that were made by the iron spikes. Billy's Christ died horribly. He was pitiful. So it goes.” (Vonnegut, 48) It is revealed to us that “so it goes” is a common Tralfamadorian expression, employed following the mention of death. In the novel, the narrator unchangingly uses this expression, suggesting an understanding of Tralfamadorian custom, and more importantly, a conscious adherence to their ways.  This, dear reader, is rather conflicting for many reasons. First, in terms of distance, the narrator is now drawn back into the original “god-like” frame. You are tugged back and forth between seeing the narrator as this distant, all-knowing entity and seeing him as a conscious, relatable force.  The use of the term “so it goes” is also perplexing because it opens up the possibility of the narrator being a Tralfamadorian, or possibly even being Billy Pilgrim, given the narrator’s adherence to Tralfamadorian conventions. Thus, through his manipulation of tone and diction, Vonnegut toys with the distance perceive between narrator and reader, at once making the narrator a friend, and also making him entirely inaccessible. Po-tee-weet.

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“That was I. That was me. That was the author of this book.”  (Vonnegut, 160) In the most particular way, Vonnegut never allows readers to divine the identity of the narrator. We are often left in the dark, nestled liked spoons, guessing at the stars, toying with the idea of the narrator is that both exactly like and the opposite of dear Billy Pilgrim. Throughout the novel, Vonnegut toys with the idea of distance between the narrator and the reader by including the narrator in the plot. We are told, at random intervals, that the narrator is witness to moments of Billy Pilgrim’s life, such as in the boxcar on the way to Dresden. How can we reconcile this with his omniscience? Could the narrator be a strange sort of doppelganger of Billy, sharing the same experiences and knowledge of emotions felt, but in the form of an entirely different person? Vonnegut capriciously plays this game of collective confusion, intermittently alternating the way that readers perceive their narrator. Listen—it’s a game of cat and cat. Again, observing the idea of distance, readers are conflicted with the idea of the narrator as a relatable mirror versus a distant observer. “Somebody behind him in the boxcar said, 'Oz.' That was I. That was me. The only other city I'd ever seen was Indianapolis, Indiana.” (Vonnegut, 185)