Perhaps Vonnegut's most ambiguous book. Not in the sense that this pulls disparate, surreal images and asks the reader to do all the work picking out the narrative. Instead, Vonnegut paints this portrait with entirely one color: grey. Any time you think you've fixed your eyes on a splash of color, of authorial intent-- you find that the sky, the trees, the grass, the Nazi-- all grey.

That might seem like a cliche, surface-level evaluation, but it permeates the book at every turn. Much of the book centers around an upcoming trial to decide the fate of a quasi-American maybe-agent who cranked the propaganda machine so hard in Nazi Germany that he became a living legend. Framing the book around the trial turns out to be a subtle stroke of genius, as the reader will be making constant cases for and against the innocence of Howard W. Campbell-- who might be Vonnegut's most compelling protagonist.

I might seem insane for this, but Vonnegut's melancholic style, unlikely optimism and surprisingly dark subject matter have long been compared to Wes Anderson, one of my favorite directors. I think this might be the most Wes Andersinian of all of Vonnegut's books. The book moves quickly through many ultra-short chapters, scenes that could be boiled down to a few still-shots I could just imagine Wes trying to sketch out in his mind. All gassed up by a dark wit and silly characters like a Black Nazi's, lovestruck twins, and *counts on fingers* triple agents? Quadruple agents?

We are what we pretend to be, says Vonnegut. So we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

A gripping exploration of blind faith, the court of public opinion, and crushing, inescapable guilt.

Possibly Vonnegut's best.