Rating: 
Summary: Clever and uplifting.
Review: In his own distinct way, Kurt Vonnegut has written the definitive work on the joys of child-like innocence and taking delight in being in the world. Without being at all saccharin or preaching, the combination of stream of consciousness and vignettes attributed to the redoubtable Kilgore Trout reach a critical mass of bemusement and wonder. One of the recurring themes is that the hallmark of a great accomplishment (and a great spirit) is that, having completed the work (whatever it is), the doer stands back and exclaims in wonder, "How the hell did I do that?" Surely, Mr. Vonnegut, at the age of 74, is entitled to peruse the body of his work and ask the same question. After raising our collective consciousness in the 60's, he now raises our spirits - and just in the nick of time. Another useful and pertinent quote, "If this isn't nice, what is?"
Rating: 
Summary: incoherent and morose
Review: There definitely are a few good plot lines scattered throughout this book, especially the short stories that Kilgore writes. As a whole though the book is disappointing and a bit morose. It certainly isn't science fiction and it isn't exactly a memoir either. It's more like an old man kvetching about how life sucks and all of his deceased loved ones are better off in the grave. What a downer!
Rating: 
Summary: I liked it!
Review: I gave this book 5 stars, but only because it was a Kurt Vonnegut book. If you have read alot of his writing, and appreciate his point of view on the world, then you will appreciate this book. If you haven't read any of his work, don't start here. This is a book written from one old friend to another, full of inside jokes and obscure references. It was a goodbye hug from my best friend in print. Now I'm depressed.
Rating:
Summary: And no thanks to Fate: Vonnegut bows out.
Review: The book is not for the un-initiated but rather for someone who loves Vonnegut already. It is the Good Bye from the greatest American humanist and author. If he is to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, it is the high time to do it.
Rating:
Summary: Farewell, sweet prince of sarcasm
Review: Well, it's over. An author's career unlike any other has finally run its course and I couldn't be more depressed. Kurt Vonnegut is an American icon to all of those (myself included) to whom the postmodern world "just doesn't make sense." I'm only 18, and still in my "salad days" to quote the master himself, but I am thankful that an author like Vonnegut came forth for the annals of history. May we all live our lives with more sanity simply knowing that there's someone out there like Vonnegut, someone who stops and asks himself incessanly, "What the hell is going on here?" If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.
Rating:
Summary: Vonnegut's Newest Bizarre Masterpiece
Review: In his latest novel, Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut has managed to blend an autobiographical narrative along with a science fictional, historical account and a dash of the finest black humor. Throughout the book, Kurt Vonnegut rants for chapters about the ironies of World War II and what he calls "the death of American eloquence." He interweaves curious, usually insightful, but not always true observations about men and women with nostalgic stories about his late sister Allie. Some of these stories would be sentimental enough to make you cry, if they weren't so incredibly funny. Vonnegut seems to make a point out of writing the novel in the same manner as he speaks. He often uses phrases such as "Whatever!" to make a transition from one paragraph to another and on a number of occasions repeats himself. In many instances it is almost impossible to distinguish fact from fiction because the truth is usually much stranger that any tale that is born in Vonnegut's mind. The almost non-existing story is hard to follow because of typical-Vonnegut, completely logical digressions on a variety of topics. Vonnegut walks the fine line that separates logic and senility, an on a number of occasions stumbles a few feet over the line. Timequake is a treat for a loyal Vonnegut fan, but is not recommended for a black humor rookie. The reader should pick up the other Vonnegut books before attempting to tackle his latest bizarre masterpiece.
Rating:
Summary: KURT IS SALVADOR DALI OF LITERATURE.
Review: KURT IS SALVADOR DALI OF LITERATURE.HE MAKES YOU TO BURN YOUR ROOTS.HE PREACHES COSMIC TRUTH WHICH MEANS YOU ARE NOBODY.MAD.HUH.
Rating:
Summary: Disappointing
Review: Vonnegut's still is a great rhetorician: he has a great voice. Unfortunately, he wouldn't know a plot if he stumbled over it. And what used to be charming is now cranky, whining, and half-baked. Stick with Cat's Cradle and Slaughterhouse Five.
Rating:
Summary: Delighted
Review: Vonnegut leaves us with little presents, useful little treasures that will be remembered for a lifetime. I will never again see a bum on a street corner without remembering how Kilgore Trout was mistaken for a bag lady, instead of a bag gentleman. When I have my next existential crisis, I will remember that the purpose of life is just to fart around. Finally, I'll be sure to plagarize the idea that steeplechasing is the perfect metaphor for life. How can anybody be ungrateful for these gifts?
Rating:
Summary: The book is great; buy it. Buy them all.
Review: Fifteen years ago my life was changed by this man. He is my unmet mentor, my nongenetic grand-father, a kinsman of deeper connective tissue at the furthest cosmic reaches. From him came my dire hatred of hypocrisy in myself, but my compassion for the hypocrisy in individuals. From him came my protective shell of pessimism with the soft, mushy center. From him came my higgledy-piggledy recursiveness, essence-saving perseverence and cynical sensitivity. Or maybe he just made it seem possible and okay to be those things ... ? Whatever the case, I'm more than grateful -- I'm, unashamedly and doggedly, me. Otherwise I can't begin to measure my gratitude; there are no modifiers of quality which could sufficiently express the depth of thanks I owe. God bless his lovely soul.
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