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Bluebeard: A Novel (Delta Fiction)
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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
- Print length336 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherDial Press Trade Paperback
- Publication dateSeptember 8, 1998
- Dimensions5.23 x 0.7 x 7.99 inches
- ISBN-10038533351X
- ISBN-13978-0385333511
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Slaughterhouse-Five
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Cat’s Cradle
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Breakfast of Champions
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The Sirens of Titan
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Mother Night
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God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
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| Customer Reviews |
4.4 out of 5 stars 39,869
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4.4 out of 5 stars 13,211
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4.3 out of 5 stars 7,491
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4.4 out of 5 stars 8,875
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4.5 out of 5 stars 5,563
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4.3 out of 5 stars 3,267
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| Price | $8.37$8.37 | $10.26$10.26 | $10.97$10.97 | $11.30$11.30 | $15.50$15.50 | $12.99$12.99 |
| “[A] desperate, painfully honest attempt to confront the monstrous crimes of the twentieth century” (Time). | “A free-wheeling vehicle . . . an unforgettable ride!”—The New York Times | “Marvelous . . . [Vonnegut] wheels out all the complaints about America and makes them seem fresh, funny, outrageous, hateful and lovable.”—The New York Times | “[Kurt Vonnegut’s] best book . . . He dares not only ask the ultimate question about the meaning of life, but to answer it.”—Esquire | “Vonnegut is George Orwell, Dr. Caligari and Flash Gordon compounded into one writer . . . a zany but moral mad scientist.”—Time | “[Vonnegut] at his wildest best.”—The New York Times Book Review |
Editorial Reviews
Review
“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
From the Inside Flap
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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!
Product details
- Publisher : Dial Press Trade Paperback
- Publication date : September 8, 1998
- Language : English
- Print length : 336 pages
- ISBN-10 : 038533351X
- ISBN-13 : 978-0385333511
- Item Weight : 10.4 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.23 x 0.7 x 7.99 inches
- Part of series : Delta Fiction
- Best Sellers Rank: #53,714 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #294 in Humorous American Literature
- #515 in Fiction Satire
- #525 in Humorous Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Kurt Vonnegut was a writer, lecturer and painter. He was born in Indianapolis in 1922 and studied biochemistry at Cornell University. During WWII, as a prisoner of war in Germany, he witnessed the destruction of Dresden by Allied bombers, an experience which inspired Slaughterhouse Five. First published in 1950, he went on to write fourteen novels, four plays, and three short story collections, in addition to countless works of short fiction and nonfiction. He died in 2007.
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Top reviews from the United States
- 5 out of 5 stars
Top Two
Reviewed in the United States on September 12, 2018Strangely, this is in my top 2 of Vonnegut books. It is almost universally acknowledged that Slaughter House Five is his very best. A masterpiece. Bluebeard is a very different narrative style for Vonnegut, but has the same, deeply moving emotion that makes Slaughter House a classic. It is a very well told story in what is a much more traditional voice. Evidence that Vonnegut would have been a genius in any style he chose. And this work is genius. I can make a lot of arguments for other books being in his top 2, but I can't make an argument why this one is not, which is ridiculous logic, but, in the end, it is the visceral response. It is that, when I think of Vonnegut, this and Slaughter House are the first two books I think of. Can you go wrong with Vonnegut, anyway? No, you can't. Even if you don't agree that it is perhaps his second best novel, you will be very unlikely to regret reading it.
25 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 4 out of 5 stars
Unleashed Imagination, that means Something
Reviewed in the United States on October 8, 2025I’ll never quite be the same after this wild romp through Vonnetut’s imagination. It was just plain fun! It hurts a little to realize that it really means something. In a way the story is about disillusionment. But it winds up being such a triumph of human spirit and meaning.
2 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 5 out of 5 stars
Vonnegut comes through again
Reviewed in the United States on October 23, 1999Again, Vonnegut has come up with a work of literature that leaves the reader (or at least me) breathless and hungry for more of his brilliant work. In all honesty, the book did lose something partway through, and right up until the end I would have rated it only about a 3-1/2. But the ending of this book (as with Mother Night and other Vonnegut novels) was worth the entire book. The secret in the potato barn was incredible; it was everything I'd thought it would be, and more.
A superb book, definitely worth reading. It also made me realize (since this was one of the first Vonnegut books I'd read) how interconnected his books really are; Rabo dates back to "Breakfast of Champions," where the reader is almost compelled to dislike him. However, during the course of this book, not only did I end up liking Rabo, I found myself cheering for him, and even understanding him. A must-read for any Vonnegut fan, and even for those who don't have a Vonnegut fetish like I do. Brilliant.
26 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 5 out of 5 stars
what a treat
Reviewed in the United States on February 18, 2026I didn’t know what to expect of this book. I found it funny, deep, engaging and relevant in 2026. Characters are well developed, story telling is straightforward but enigmatic and the ending is so satisfying.
2 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 5 out of 5 stars
You'll catch yourself at least once with super dumb expressions on your face and make sure no-one ...
Reviewed in the United States on May 5, 2017It's Kurt Vonnegut ffs... I can't be expected to write a separate review for each of his books so here's my answer for 'Should I buy (insert KV book here)?
YES... (insert KV book here) is amazingly well written... you'll laugh out loud at least once... you'll cry at least once... You'll catch yourself at least once with super dumb expressions on your face and make sure no-one is looking at you... you'll have to put the book down at least once because it's too much feelz... You will read many phrases that you'll think 'I should write this down to mention to people!' but don't bother, there are too many and people will feel like you're obsessed with Kurt Vonnegut.
Seriously though, about Bluebeard... It's KV writing about abstract expressionists (painters), which I love, and I've always considered KV an abstract expressionist writer in a way... You sometimes have no idea what you are reading or have just read, but you stare off into space and simply say... "Wow... Deep."
25 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 4 out of 5 stars
Entertaining. Approaches greatness. Unique story. 4.5
Reviewed in the United States on April 12, 2025Book was interesting start to finish. Easy to see why he has the disclaimer at the start. Well developed characters. Interesting story. Wished for a little more pop at the end.
Sending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 3 out of 5 stars
Kindle typos
Reviewed in the United States on August 11, 20105 stars for the Vonnegut book. 1 star for the Kindle edition.
This Kindle book is absolutely loaded with typos from poorly scanned and edited OCR. They must have had an unpaid intern take care of it. It goes to show me just how little the publishers care about ebooks, and how they'd like to slow demand for what they think they can't get insane profits from. It wouldn't surprise me if they purposely do a horrible job with every ebook just to get people running back to their precious overpriced paperbacks and hardcovers.
Examples of typos:
"Tor what?"
He, cheat and steal
"J already have," she said.
Talk about realism]
--The author wrote "realism!" in italics so the OCR thinks an italics exclamation point is a bracket. Nobody changed it. How could they miss this stuff? It's not just misspellings but also lack of commas, quotation marks, and so on. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't on every couple of pages. The first few are no problem, nobody's perfect. But once they become a distraction, it really takes away from the reading experience.
The should at the very least have some respect for the late Mr Vonnegut and have an editor do a once over.
88 people found this helpfulSending feedback...Sending feedback...HelpfulThank you for your feedback.Sorry, we failed to record your vote. Please try againThanks, we'll investigate in the next few days.Sorry, We failed to report this review. Please try again - 5 out of 5 stars
We need more brilliant Kurt Vonneguts
Reviewed in the United States on October 28, 2019Have been reading him for years. This book let me escape from the horrible and hateful politics of 2019 and remember the history and devastation of WWII. And somehow be grateful again for being American and not tell Europeans I am Canadian when over there for fear they will react badly. (They should, and do.)
It was hysterically funny, tremendously sad and interestingly educational about this genre of art. Bad for sleep, though, as hard to put in down before 2 am.
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Top reviews from other countries
barbara gorman3 out of 5 starsA quirky trip
Reviewed in Australia on April 21, 2021Has typical Vonnegut themes, anti-war, corrosive American inventions and values. But the Bluebeard secret held my attention till the end. I was a tiny bit annoyed by lack of a central theme until the absolute end of the book. Still a good read though, with its humour and wry observations.
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Saul of Tarsus5 out of 5 starsOne day of Vonnegut’s best
Reviewed in Italy on March 18, 2023A great primer for friends who say they don’t understand abstract art.. ..if only they would read it🤣
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Sharon Lundy5 out of 5 starsGood Vonnegut
Reviewed in Canada on January 3, 2026Connect is always a good read
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Sol5 out of 5 starsExilio, arte y guerra
Reviewed in Spain on March 17, 2018El narrador, de origen armenio, narra una mezcla de sus memorias y su día a día y cuenta cómo se convirtió en artista, su relación con el arte moderno y la influencia de este en su matrimonio, su papel como artista en la guerra y las secuelas tras su intervención en esta. En un antiguo granero, al igual que en la cámara de Barba Azul, guarda un secreto relacionado con su vida que no desea revelar. La historia se mueve entre presente y pasado sin saltos, de forma magistral.
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Manfred5 out of 5 starsBest book I ever read
Reviewed in Germany on February 16, 2026The best book I ever read
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