by Kurt Vonnegut

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“Ranks with Vonnegut’s best and goes one step beyond . . . joyous, soaring fiction.”—The Atlanta Journal and Constitution

Broad humor and bitter irony collide in this fictional autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, who, at age seventy-one, wants to be left alone on his Long Island estate with the secret he has locked inside his potato barn. But then a voluptuous young widow badgers Rabo into telling his life story—and Vonnegut in turn tells us the plain, heart-hammering truth about man’s careless fancy to create or destroy what he loves.

Praise for Bluebeard

“Vonnegut is at his edifying best.”The Philadelphia Inquirer

“The quicksilver mind of Vonnegut is at it again. . . . He displays all his talents—satire, irony, ridicule, slapstick, and even a shaggy dog story of epic proportions.”The Cincinnati Post
“[Kurt Vonnegut is] a voice you can trust to keep poking holes in the social fabric.”San Francisco Chronicle
“It has the qualities of classic Bosch and Slaughterhouse Vonnegut. . . . Bluebeard is uncommonly feisty.”USA Today
“Is Bluebeard good? Yes! . . . This is vintage Vonnegut—good wine from his best grapes.”The Detroit News
“A joyride . . . Vonnegut is more fascinated and puzzled than angered by the human stupidities and contradictions he discerns so keenly. So hop in his rumble seat. As you whiz along, what you observe may provide some new perspectives.”Kansas City Star

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781555045920
Publisher: Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date: 10/28/1988
Edition description: Large Print
Pages: 343
Product dimensions: 6.50(w) x 1.50(h) x 9.50(d)

About the Author

Kurt Vonnegut’s black humor, satiric voice, and incomparable imagination first captured America’s attention in The Sirens of Titan in 1959 and established him as “a true artist” (The New York Times) with Cat’s Cradle in 1963. He was, as Graham Greene declared, “one of the best living American writers.” Mr. Vonnegut passed away in April 2007.

Date of Birth:

November 11, 1922

Date of Death:

April 11, 2007

Place of Birth:

Indianapolis, Indiana

Place of Death:

New York, New York


Cornell University, 1940-42; Carnegie-Mellon University, 1943; University of Chicago, 1945-47; M.A., 1971

Read an Excerpt


By Kurt Vonnegut

Random House

Kurt Vonnegut
All right reserved.

ISBN: 038533351X

Chapter One

Having written "The End" to this story of my life, I find it prudent to scamper back here to before the beginning, to my front door, so to speak, and to make this apology to arriving guests: "I promised you an autobiography, but something went wrong in the kitchen. It turns out to be a diary of this past troubled summer, too! We can always send out for pizzas if necessary. Come in, come in."

I am the erstwhile American painter Rabo Karabekian, a one-eyed man. I was born of immigrant parents in San Ignacio, California, in 1916. I begin this autobiography seventy-one years later. To those unfamiliar with the ancient mysteries of arithmetic, that makes this year 1987.

I was not born a cyclops. I was deprived of my left eye while commanding a platoon of Army Engineers, curiously enough artists of one sort or another in civilian life, in Luxembourg near the end of World War Two. We were specialists in camouflage, but at that time were fighting for our lifes as ordinary infantry. The unit was composed of artists, since it was the theory of someone in the Army that we would be especially good at camouflage.

And so we were! And we were! What hallucinations we gave the Germans as to what was dangerous to them behind our lines, and what was not. Yes, and we were allowed to live like artists, too,hilariously careless in matters of dress and military courtesy. We were never attached to a unit as quotidian as a division or even a corps. We were under orders which came directly from the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force, which assigned us temporarily to this or that general, who had heard of our astonishing illusions. He was our patron for just a little while, permissive and fascinated and finally grateful.

Then off we went again.

Since I had joined the regular Army and become a lieutenant two years before the United States backed into the war, I might have attained the rank of lieutenant colonel at least by the end of the wear. But I refused all promotions beyond captain in order to remain with my happy family of thirty-six men. That was my first experience with a family that large. My second came after the war, when I found myself a friend and seeming peer of those American painters who have now entered art history as founders of the Abstract Expressionist school.

My mother and father had families bigger than those two of mine back in the Old World-and of course their relatives back there were blood relatives. They lost their blood relatives to a massacre by the Turkish Empire of about one million of its Armenian citizens, who were thought to be treacherous for two reasons: first because they were clever and educated, and second because so many of them had relatives on the other side of Turkey's border with its enemy, the Russian Empire.

It was an age of Empires. So is this one, not all that well disguised.

The German Empire, allied with the Turks, sent impassive military observers to evaluate this century's first genocide, a word which did not exist in any language then. The word is now understood everywhere to mean a carefully planned effort to kill every member, be it man, woman, or child, of a perceived subfamily of the human race.

The problems presented by such ambitious projects are purely industrial: how to kill that many big, resourceful animals cheaply and quickly, make sure that nobody gets away, and dispose of mountains of meat and bones afterwards. The Turks, in their pioneering effort, had neither the aptitude for really big business nor the specialized machinery required. The Germans would exhibit both par excellence only one quarter of a century later. The Turks simply took all the Armenians they could find in their homes or places of work or refreshment or play or worship or education or whatever, marched them out into the countryside, and kept them away from food and water and shelter, and shot and bashed them and so on until they all appeared to be dead. It was up to dogs and vultures and rodents and so on, and finally worms, to clean up the mess afterwards.

My mother, who wasn't yet my mother, only pretended to be dead among the corpses.

My father, who wasn't yet her husband, hid in the shit and piss of a privy behind the schoolhouse where he was a teacher when the soldiers came. The school day was over, and my father-to-be was all alone in the schoolhouse writing poetry, he told me one time. Then he heard the soldiers coming and understood what they meant to do. Father never saw or heard the actual killing. For him, the stillness of the village, of which he was the only inhabitant at nightfall, all covered with shit and piss, was his most terrible memory of the massacre.

Although my mother's memories from the Old World were more gruesome than my father's, since she was right there in the killing fields, she somehow managed to put the massacre behind her and find much to like in the United States, and to daydream about a family future here.

My father never did.

I am a widower. My wife, nee Edith Taft, who was my second such, died two years ago. She left me this nineteen-room house on the waterfront of East Hampton, Long Island, which had been in her Anglo-Saxon family from Cincinnati, Ohio, for three generations. Her ancestors surely never expected it to fall into the hands of a man with a name as exotic as Rabo Karabekian.

If they haunt this place, they do it with such Episcopalian good manners that no one has so far noticed them. If I were to come upon the spook of one of them on the grand staircase, and he or she indicated that I had no rights to this house, I would say this to him or her: "Blame the Statue of Liberty."

Dear Edith and I were happily married for twenty years. She was a grandniece of William Howard Taft, the twenty-seventh president of the United States and the tenth chief justice of the Supreme Court. She was the widow of a Cincinnati sportsman and investment banker named Richard Fairbanks, Jr., himself descended from Charles Warren Fairbanks, a United States senator from Indiana and then vice-president under Theodore Roosevelt.

We came to know each other long before her husband died when I persuaded her, and him, too, although this was her property, not his, to rent their unused potato barn to me for a studio. They had never been potato farmers, of course. They had simply bought land from a farmer next door, to the north, away from the beach, in order to keep it from being developed. With it had come the potato barn.

Edith and I did not come to know each other well until after her husband died and my first wife, Dorothy, and our two sons, Terry and Henri, moved out on me. I sold our house, which was in the village of Springs, six miles north of here, and made Edith's barn not only my studio but my home.

That improbable dwelling, incidentally, is invisible from the main house, where I am writing now.

Edith had no children by her first husband, and she was past childbearing when I transmogrified her from being Mrs. Richard Fairbanks, Jr., into being Mrs. Rabo Karabekian instead.

So we were a very tiny family indeed in this great big house, with its two tennis courts and swimming pool, and its carriage house and its potato barn-and its three hundred yards of private beach on the open Atlantic Ocean.

One might think that my two sons, Terry and Henri Karabekian, whom I named in honor of my closest friend, the late Terry Kitchen, and the artist Terry and I most envied, Henri Matisse, might enjoy coming here with their families. Terry has two sons of his own now. Henri has a daughter.

But they do not speak to me.

"So be it! So be it!" I cry in this manicured wilderness. "Who gives a damn!" Excuse this outburst.

Dear Edith, like all great Earth Mothers, was a multitude. Even when there were only the two of us and the servants here, she filled this Victorian ark with love and merriment and hands-on domesticity. As privileged as she had been all her life, she cooked with the cook, gardened with the gardener, did all our food shopping, fed the pets and birds, and made personal friends of wild rabbits and squirrels and raccoons.

But we used to have a lot of parties, too, and guests who sometimes stayed for weeks-her friends and relatives, mostly. I have already said how matters stood and stand with my own few blood relatives, alienated descendants all. As for my synthetic relatives in the Army: some were killed in the little battle in which I was taken prisoner, and which cost me one eye. Those who survived I have never seen or heard from since. It may be that they were not as fond of me as I was of them.

These things happen.

The members of my other big synthetic family, the Abstract Expressionists, are mostly dead now, having been killed by everything from mere old age to suicide. The few survivors, like my blood relatives, no longer speak to me.

"So be it! So be it!" I cry in this manicured wilderness. "Who gives a damn!" Excuse this outburst.

All of our servants quit soon after Edith died. They said it had simply become too lonely here. So I hired some new ones, paying them a great deal of money to put up with me and all the loneliness. When Edith was alive, and the house was alive, the gardener and the two maids and the cook all lived here. Now only the cook, and, as I say, a different cook, lives in, and has the entire servants' quarters on the third floor of the ell to herself and her fifteen-year-old daughter. She is a divorced woman, a native of East Hampton, about forty, I would say. Her daughter, Celeste, does no work for me, but simply lives here and eats my food, and entertains her loud and willfully ignorant friends on my tennis courts and in my swimming pool and on my private oceanfront.

She and her friends ignore me, as though I were a senile veteran from some forgotten war, daydreaming away what little remains of his life as a museum guard. Why should I be offended? This house, in addition to being a home, shelters what is the most important collection of Abstract Expressionist paintings still in private hands. Since I have done no useful work for decades, what else am I, really, but a museum guard?

And, just as a paid museum guard would have to do, I answer as best I can the question put to me by visitor after visitor, stated in various ways, of course: "What are these pictures supposed to mean?"

These paintings, which are about absolutely nothing but themselves, were my own property long before I married Edith. They are worth at least as much as all the real estate and stocks and bonds, including a one-quarter share in the Cincinnati Bengals professional football team, which Edith left to me. So I cannot be stigmatized as an American fortune-hunter.

I may have been a lousy painter, but what a collector I turned out to be!

Excerpted from Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Bluebeard 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 53 reviews.
ckoller on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was a good, engaging book but it tended to drag on. It's written in a stream-of-consciousness style, not my favorite.
figre on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
If you have read Vonnegut before, then you know what to expect from this book. In fact, there are hints of Cat¿s Cradle, Slaughterhouse Five, and a few other of his books within the pages. We have an artist writing about his past, but in the process letting us know about his present. It is Vonnegut pontificating on many of his regular subjects ¿ war, humanity, what the heck is this life anyway ¿ through odd characters in odd situations. But, even if it is a slight rehash, it is always good to read Vonnegut. And, even if this isn¿t groundbreaking, it is another chance to taste Vonnegut¿s excellent story telling.And, if you have not read Vonnegut before, start with a different book. Not that this one isn¿t good, you will just be better off starting somewhere else.
shawnd on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This lilting powerhouse of American literature is closer in some ways to Salinger than the typical ex-Dresden-bombing-middle-American-ethnic-science-fiction protagonist cavorting with unexpected celebrity and/or beautiful women. The main character, an Armenian veteran, still is graced with Vonnegutian coincidences but among a more Great American Novel/Salinger cast, with some nods to New York, although set globally and in the Hamptons. In the book, Rabo, the main character, is an erstwhile early member of the Abstract Expressionist painting movement. The book touches on generosity, minorities-with-lack-of-mentorship, love, fate of women in our universal struggle, without some of the more common Vonnegut problems of lust, technology, and ignorance. Perhaps Vonnegut's best.
BooksForDinner on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
One of KV's later works. Rabo Karabekian is me in a lot of ways. Without the potato barn. Or the giant painting of WWII.
giovannigf on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
It had been some 15 years since I had last read Vonnegut, and reading Bluebeard now reminded me why. While he's undeniably entertaining, Vonnegut's insights are not particularly deep or challenging: war is bad, men are bad to women, art should be earnest, etc. etc.It would make more sense if these books were marketed towards young adults.
the_awesome_opossum on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Rene Magritte painted a very famous picture of a pipe with the text Ceci n'est pas une pipe - This is not a pipe. And he was right: it was a representation of a pipe, but what it actually is is acrylic paint on a canvas. (Then again, in that statement we might want to consult with Bill Clinton "on what the meaning of the word 'is' is"). This self-aware and ultimately self-defeating anti-ideal espoused by modern and postmodern art, the absence or artificiality of its meaning, is satirized in Bluebeard. Rabo Karabekian is a failed artist, whose paintings literally disintegrated due to a poor (but unforseeable) choice of materials. Now, at the twilight of his years, he sets out to write an autobiography. Unfortunately, like his paintings, the book quickly devolves in an abstract and aimless rambling about the parts of his life that he can still remember. And yet, there turns out to be value in that selective representation. Rabo's artistic philosophy and training has ranged all the way from "Draw everything the way it really is" (early in life) to telling his audience to "Make up your own stories as you look at the whatchamacallit" (very late). Yet the abstractions and ambiguities that define modern art are nevertheless choices made by the artists, that can effect an emotional impact on audiences. So art does not contain Meaning so much as a multiplicity of meanings, and audiences can come away with (ill-defined but nevertheless real) emotionally resonant somethings rather than nothing.
petrojoh on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Enjoyable character study. However, after reading the book it is difficult to figure out if Mr. Vonnegut is defending or mocking the ab ex art movement.
Trotsky731 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Another Vonnegut classic. Tells the story of Armenian-American, famous painter Rabo Karebekian. Karebekian is now an old man "hermited" up in his Long Island mansion until a woman comes to stay with him and livens up the place. She forces Karebekian to write his autobiography(Bluebeard). Full of Vonneguts unique brand of satire and wisdom.
fuzzy_patters on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A fictional autobiography about an abstract expressionist painter, Bluebeard is a rich and vibrant tale about the quest for meaning in life and art. Humorously told, it is a quick but enjoyable read, and I highly recommend it.
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I love Kurt Vonnegut. Bluebeard doesn't have quite as much humor as some of his others, but enough to keep it interesting. It is a great story and very poignant.
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Jared Gunnell More than 1 year ago
this is an excellent example of the wit and wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut. more pronounced is a theme of sadness and human futility that can be overcome only if we want to. the message here may be that often we dont want to.
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