Look at the Birdie. Ein dreifach Hoch auf die Milchstrasse!, englische Ausgabe

CONFIDO


The Summer had died peacefully in its sleep, and Autumn, as soft-spoken executrix, was locking life up safely until Spring came to claim it. At one with this sad, sweet allegory outside the kitchen window of her small home was Ellen Bowers, who, early in the morning, was preparing Tuesday breakfast for her husband, Henry. Henry was gasping and dancing and slapping himself in a cold shower on the other side of a thin wall.

Ellen was a fair and tiny woman, in her early thirties, plainly mercurial and bright, though dressed in a dowdy housecoat. In almost any event she would have loved life, but she loved it now with an overwhelming emotion that was like the throbbing amen of a church organ, for she could tell herself this morning that her husband, in addition to being good, would soon be rich and famous.

She hadn't expected it, had seldom dreamed of it, had been content with inexpensive possessions and small adventures of the spirit, like thinking about autumn, that cost nothing at all. Henry was not a moneymaker. That had been the understanding.

He was an easily satisfied tinker, a maker and mender who had a touch close to magic with materials and machines. But his miracles had all been small ones as he went about his job as a laboratory assistant at the Accousti-gem Corporation, a manufacturer of hearing aids. Henry was valued by his employers, but the price they paid for him was not great. A high price, Ellen and Henry had agreed amiably, probably wasn't called for, since being paid at all for puttering was an honor and a luxury of sorts. And that was that.

Or that had seemed to be that, Ellen reflected, for on the kitchen table lay a small tin box, a wire, and an earphone, like a hearing aid, a creation, in its own modern way, as marvelous as Niagara Falls or the Sphinx. Henry had made it in secret during his lunch hours, and had brought it home the night before. Just before bedtime, Ellen had been inspired to give the box a name, an

Kurt Vonnegut

The fourteen stories in Look at the Birdie, none of the afraid to entertain, dabble in whodunnitry, science fiction and commanding fables of good versus girls. Why these stories went unpublished is hard to answer. They re polished, they re relentlessly fun to read, and every last one of them comes to a neat and satisfying end. For transmittal of moral instruction, they are incredibly efficient delivery devices. Dave Eggers, The New York Times Book Review
 
[Look at the Birdie] brings us the late writer s young voice as he skewers sometimes gently, always lethally post World War II America. . . . These stories recall not only a vanished time but also an almost extinct writing style: direct, funny, and free of slickness. The Boston Globe
 
Vonnegut s wry and whimsical spirit lives on The Daytona Beach News-Journal
 
In a perfect world, this would be the sort of thing people would line up for at midnight. New York
 
Why these entertaining little tales were never published before is a mystery. Perhaps some magazine editor was going through a mental breakdown when the stories showed up in the mail. Or perhaps Vonnegut stuffed them into a sock drawer and forgot them. Whatever the case, they are without exception fun to read. . . . A throwback to the days when American readers expected magazines to publish engaging stories. The Roanoke Times
  
Occasionally from the nation s cultural attic come rare finds, like this wondrous new collection of Kurt Vonnegut short stories. . . . Reading Look at the Birdie is a bit like watching TV s Mad Men, with the added knowledge that the stories are of their time, not re-creations. The mastery evident in these early stories provides a precious glimpse of a writer finding his wings in the years before he soared. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
 
Vanity and mendacity had better watch out, because their dearest enemy remains among us, still