Revisiting this book took a bit of the sheen off of it for me. When I first read it [checks blog] 13 years ago, I was smitten with the philosophy of Bokononism, and even now cheekily identify myself as a Bokononist when people have the temerity to ask after my religious beliefs. On this reading, however, I find myself jaded even to that belief system.
Instead of gazing starry-eyed at Vonnegut's philosophy, this time I was more aware of his craft. All of the elements were there in fine form: the metaliterary structure, the book in my hand eventually revealed to be nothing more than a pillow; the orthographic innovations, in this case the calypso interludes; and of course the kernel of truth.
What is the truth here though? If it is not the religion itself, nor even the wider ideas about religion, which reveal themselves to be shallower than I remembered, then what? It is revealed in the title, naturally. The Cat's Cradle is the real religion here. Everything, including this book, is an elaborate twisting of yarn, one upon which we project our own forms. There is no such thing as a Karass, sadly, likewise society, love, and culture. This is the ultimate in string theory: the seemingly intricate connections that make up our reality are but one knotted line, revealed as flaccid and formless with a simple tug.
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