It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?"
Vonnegut is trying to describe his Dresden manuscript to his publisher. In fact, he seems to be apologizing for his manuscript, attempting to justify its deficiencies. He is writing about a massacre. The word "massacre" indicates a lack of human survivors, as Vonnegut notes. A senseless void, filled only by the sound of birds. And those birds say something equally senseless, pose a question: "Poo-tee-weet?" That question repeats throughout the book, as Vonnegut tries to mold his narrative out of the ashes and rubble of Dresden.
Tonight's post is going to be short and jumbled and jangled. I am tired. Not thinking clearly. Between each sentence I type, I drift. There was a three-minute pause between the first and second words of this paragraph. I'm am not trying to make any profound statements regarding the nature of tragedy. Humankind's inhumanity to humankind. No, as Vonnegut does, I will leave that job to the birds. Poo-tee-weet.
I will not try to make sense of the upcoming presidential inauguration. Or the refugee crisis in Syria. Or my teenage daughter. I could write about how cold it is--a balmy -2 degrees at the moment. Or the two hours I spent clothes shopping with my aforementioned daughter, including an argument, tears, and a period of stony silence.
However, as I said, I am too tired for all that. The birds get the final poo-tee-weet of the night.
Saint Marty is grateful for his bed and pillows.