Art by Kurt Vonnegut of Kilgore Trout

More about Art by Kurt Vonnegut of Kilgore Trout

Kilgore Trout wrote the story on the back of a diner placemat because that was where ideas went when they didn’t want to be published.

Kurt Vonnegut was trout fishing in Amerikkka, which is America after it has misspelled itself on purpose. He stood in a river that had been straightened by a committee and stocked by a budget, casting a fly that looked like a committee too—feathers voting in all directions. The trout watched from beneath a plastic bag, because even fish like irony when it’s biodegradable.

Kurt kept apologizing to the river. He apologized for the dams, for the slogans, for the wars that were printed smaller than the cereal box prizes. He apologized for me, Kilgore Trout, because characters are easier to apologize for than countries. The river accepted the apology the way rivers do: by continuing.

Every time Kurt cast, a sentence landed instead of a fly. The sentences floated, drifted, and were eaten by trout who immediately regretted it. One trout swallowed a metaphor and grew a conscience. Another bit a punchline and learned to laugh underwater, which is fatal to punchlines.

A man on the bank asked Kurt if he was having any luck. Kurt said luck had been privatized. The man nodded like this was weather.

Eventually Kurt hooked something large and tired. He reeled it in gently, because gentleness is a technology that still works. It was Amerikkka itself—muddy, twitching, covered in badges it had given itself for surviving things it caused. Kurt unhooked it without taking a picture. Amerikkka swam away offended, which is its favorite stroke.

Kurt went home and fed the cat. The cat judged him fairly. I mailed this story to no one. It was returned with a stamp that said DELIVERED ANYWAY.