l think its faults are actually a result of whatever strengths Vonnegut does have as a writer, because it shows that while he may be a stylistically interesting writer he is still a rather limited writer in terms of knowing his talents and using them to his advantage. I get that the book is supposed to stretch his schtick to its breaking point, but to what degree it's a success or even a worthwhile endeavor is seriously questionable. The more post-modernist choices in this book he makes aren't interesting (self-reference, making himself a character) and don't make the book compelling to me; they've all been done before in other contexts and done better. They just smack of paltry contrivance, and his boredom with the book is a good argument for the audience to feel alienated. Like I said, it seems more like a personal exercise, like something he typed out to work through his anguish in a basement at night. If that's the case he should have left the thing unpublished or burned it. It might be said to be a definitive work of his, in that no one else could write it, but it exposes at the same time his worse tendencies as a writer - flat prose, a certain obnoxiousness in his succint but rambling style, narrative contrivances. I had no idea people even cared for this book, I could barely finish it myself. My honest opinion is that it's a self-indulgent mess, but I guess if you're smitten with post-modern fiction then you'll enjoy it.