Trying to get some sleep with the lights on

TWO separate voices crying in the wilderness. Vonnegut makes a virtue

out of his books origins. The 21 chapters and nine appendixes comprise a

number of speeches, occasional pieces,

fragments of family history

and autobiography, articles for Architectural Digest and so on, linked

by a conversational commentary. He does not say so directly, but makes

it clear that had he offered his betting slips and laundry lists they

would have found a home here too. A reward of fame, he reminds us.

In this and his other conclusions he is disarmingly honest. Part of

this is attributable to his tone, and part to his subject matter. The

book was strung together in the summer of last year; the final editing

was done in the aftermath of the Gulf war. The setting was completed

while he waited on the arrival of another novel. It follows Hocus Pocus

and shares the same pessimism, joy, love and humour. Now that this is

out of the way he can get on with the new book.

Most of these pieces justify their collation. They are small and could

hardly find a significant readership in any other form. Like the

synopsis of Kilgore Trout's novels and stories, they are remarkably

complete. They leave the impression of 21 novel treatments, from which a

definite palette of themes emerges. The title is more than apposite. Few

writers have given death more dominion. Many have an almost obsessional

interest in dying, but only he seems capable of dealing with our grand

finale on a human scale, reducing it to our level with compassionate

absurdity.

Vonnegut, as the world knows, survived the Dresden bombing, an earlier

example of friendly fire, and wrote about it in Slaughterhouse-Five. His

friend Bernard V. O'Hare was also a survivor. O'Hare died recently of

lung cancer and was cremated with a book of matches and a packet of

cigarettes in his pocket. Vonnegut judges the bombing: ''Only one person

on earth clearly benefited, and I am that person. I got about five

dollars for each corps, counting my fee tonight.'' This book is meant to

be a sequal to Palm Sunday, published in 1980. The sum has gone up by

two dollars since then and will obviously keep rising. His Requiem Mass

seems to have cost him money. A half-Protestant, half-Jewish, black-tied

audience of which he was one, attended the world premier of Andrew Lloyd

Webber's Requiem in St Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, on

February 12, 1985. As usual, an English translation of the words of the

mass was included in the programme.

''They were terrible!'' says Vonnegut, who stayed up half the night

writing a better mass. ''That is not a vain statement. Anybody could

write a better one and nobody could write a worse one.'' Vonnegut is

literal minded enough to draw the conclusion that ''Rest eternal grant

them, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them'' has the dead

''trying to get some sleep with the lights on'' His own mass you may

read for yourself. The denouement came when Mrs Vonnegut met Andrew

Lloyd Webber in London and told him her husband had written a requiem.

''Oh I know,'' he said. ''Now everybody is writing requiems.''

Once again, Kurt Vonnegut gives us a clear idea of what it would be

like to be in his company. His style and attitude converge at a point

where they reflect relaxation and assurance. Though he and Gore Vidal

are of a similar age, Vidal is still trying to impress, still looking

for the obscure reference or quotation to put his readers in their

place. There are many similarities between these two but, on this

evidence, the main difference is that Vonnegut refuses to take himself

or his subjects seriously.

Vidal tells us he has never written a book review for money. Readers

are left to hazard other motivations. I think spite is a spur, which

makes him a wonderful political writer.

He seldom watches television, except on a Sunday when our corporate

rulers address us from their cathode pulpit. The level of chat on these

programmes ''is about as slow as it is possible to get without actually

serving the viewers gin''.

Almost every page offers a tantalising glimpse of a uniquely acid wit.

Indeed, part of the joy of reading Vidal is the tension between his

surgically cerebral approach and the occasional glorious knee in the

groin. His victims do not always notice the attack until it's too late.

He is best on America, but when his political pieces are compared with

the kind of political writing we find here, he weighs in as an AK49 as

against a variety of potato guns. Politicians are always fair game and

perpetually in season.

While America is being hailed as our new, single superpower, Gore

Vidal chronicles its collapse. He is single-handedly trying to combat

what he sees as an inexorable tide of misinformation emanating from

schools, established religions, press and television. Of course, he is

right and, rather like Vonnegut dealing with death, makes his subjects

look less than human, pompous and self-serving.

His literary anecdotes are so authoritative that when they are

followed by his political essays we cannot help but believe them too.

With fewer Americans voting in the elections, some suspect the structure

is crumbling. Gore Vidal is one of the better termites chewing away at

the White House foundations.