[An] imaginary young tiger of a novelist, fresh out of one of the writing programs where Mr. Vonnegut has taught, could turn ["Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage"] into a gorgeous tour-de-force. The key to it would be to make the autobiographical musings more detailed and revealing than Mr. Vonnegut's, and the reflections, confidences and orations not copied from genuine letters and speeches, but invented and better….

In very top form [Mr. Vonnegut] has reminded me of Günter Grass, who is a writer of genius. I don't know whether Mr. Grass started out with more talent, but Mr. Grass has manipulated the talent he has with relentless logic and daring. Mr. Vonnegut, by contrast, is always turning aside (as, again, he confesses) to pop a quick joke, from what seems faint-heartedness, or else will bring himself up short with one of his trivializing signature phrases: "Hi-Ho," "Peace" or "So it goes." Even in "Slaughterhouse-Five," he quickly ducks into the incongruous sci-fi world of Tralfamadore whenever fright at the scenery of World War II overtakes him. A kind of congenital irresolution threatens to bring him down soon—as has happened with so many American writers before him—to a last couple of books which declare openly that he has failed to follow his premises through to a conclusion. (p. 33)