Ode to Kurt Vonnegut or: How I Learned to Stop Liking Pulp Fiction and like Pulp Fiction

My problem with most fiction: its main purpose is to engender enjoyment. Not that I masochistically hinder myself, though if I did, I hear masochism can be enjoyable; I enjoy reality. If your life sucks, maybe fiction is for you.

Oh, look: a punch line in the first paragraph. Though don't think I'm doing anything but arbitrarily singling out fiction readers. There are worse ways in which people manage to waste their time.

Now to deal with my qualifier: I don't dislike all fiction. Kurt Vonnegut's works are part of this exception. His books are unified: each action and character is sufficiently meaningful, virtually nothing is superfluous. Not only do his books provoke philosophic thought, but the connections throughout the book and sufficient meaning in every event and character make his books healthy for the mind, because there are no loose ends.

I also like fiction that is beautiful, such as Shakespeare, but who wants to hear about that?

The same comments go for movies (I would also include television, but I watch The O.C.). An excellent example, which kills both of the birds with one stone, is Requiem for a Dream. But instead I'll talk about Pulp Fiction to justify my clever wordplay. This movie is a collection of self-sufficient abstracts, in which each character and segment play a significant role. These abstracts provoke thought about the nature of everyday life. There is some philosophy and comedy tossed in, as well as a disturbed chronology and stunted ending to affirm the movie's commitment to abstain from superficiality.

Join me next week when I'll hopefully concentrate even more and have both hands available to type.