As fragmented and discursive as the title would suggest, Timequake rarely develops any narrative flow and is largely composed of either the redundant aphorisms that have always made up his philosophy of life, or autobiographical bon mots that rarely serve much purpose. While it is an incredibly easy read, the experience is stunted by having to wade through long, boring stretches where little of value is expressed and pedantic moments in which one feels that he has no respect for the intelligence of his audience (he has an especial contempt for the younger generation raised on computers, which I did appreciate). As a last hurrah for an old man, Vonnegut managed to say everything he had left to say and offer a few pearls of wisdom. In comparison to his very best work, the book is a startlingly unambitious failure that validates his notion that he wasn't really worth a hill of beans as a writer...