August 17: Oz, Fruit Stand, Truth Is Ugly

The trip to Dresden was a lark.  It took only two hours.  Shriveled little bellies were full.  Sunlight and mild air came in through the ventilators.  There were plenty of smokes from the Englishmen.

The Americans arrived in Dresden at five in the afternoon.  The boxcar doors were opened, and the doorways framed the loveliest city that most of the Americans had ever seen.  The skyline was intricate and voluptuous and enchanted and absurd.  It looked like a Sunday school picture of Heaven to Billy Pilgrim.

Somebody behind him in the boxcar said, "Oz."  That was I.  That was me.  The only other city I'd ever seen was Indianapolis, Indiana.

Vonnegut enters the novel again.  One little line of dialogue.  His real impression of Dresden before the bombing.  Certainly, much of Billy's reaction to the city are also Vonnegut's, as well.  However, Vonnegut feels it necessary to step forward for a moment, wave his arms, remind his readers that what they're reading isn't all make believe.  He wants us to remember that shit's about to become real.  Really real.

As a writer, I can say that there's truth in everything I write.  Every poem or essay or story.  If truth didn't exist in a piece of writing, that writing wouldn't work.  It would fall flat on its face.  No matter what I'm reading, whether it's a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks or Ovid's Metamorphoses, I have to buy whatever fruit the author is selling.  And if that apple doesn't look ripe and real, if those grapes look shriveled and sour, I'm not going to be willing to take a bite.

Vonnegut's produce is healthy and ripe.  He spends the first twenty or thirty pages of Slaughterhouse setting us up.  He tells us that he's tried and failed many times to write about his war experiences.  We know that from the outset.  So Vonnegut layers the story of Billy Pilgrim time traveler on top of his account of the destruction of Dresden.  That's his way of telling the truth.

So what's my point?  My point is that sometimes the only way to approach the truth is through fiction or poetry.  I can't write about what's happening to my father right now except through Vonnegut through Billy Pilgrim.  My dad is on a train, bound for Dresden right now.  I think he's probably a little frightened that he may never come back, that he's on a one-way trip.  And I'm not entirely convinced that he isn't right.

Sometimes the truth is beautiful--The Statue of Liberty on Ellis Island, welcoming the tired and poor and hungry.  Sometimes the truth is ugly--ISIS agents and white supremacists and fire bombs.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for the oranges in his fridge tonight.