[In the review below, Streitfeld argues that society is the main character in Hocus Pocus and that Vonnegut's sense of dismay with America is the novel's overriding tone.]

Sixty-seven years old and recipient of as large a measure of fame as any writer in our time, Kurt Vonnegut still does what he can to enlighten the masses. He meets the public, gives lectures, talks to the press, opens himself up. An incident arising out of one such encounter last year, when Vonnegut spoke at a California university and gave an interview to a reporter for the local paper, bears repeating.

The interview, as printed, was less than laudatory. When Vonnegut saw a copy, he fired off a letter to the reporter, telling her that the story had "a paragraph of pure editorializing suggesting to most readers that a vain and shamefully overpaid phony and hypocrite had passed through town …"

He added that the reporter gave him no inkling she felt this way, and asked: "Is it fair or even decent for a so-called reporter to keep such scorn concealed, so that the scorned person cannot try to deal with it until it appears in print?"

Vonnegut then forgot all about the story—until his letter turned up for sale from a California rare-book dealer noted for both the high quality and high price of his material. In this case, the 450-word letter, plus photocopies of two stories by the reporter, was offered for $350.

To show what a good deal it was, half the letter was quoted in the catalogue. Since copyright law forbids quoting extensive passages from unpublished letters without permission, Vonnegut was angry again—so he instructed his lawyer to get in touch with the bookseller.

A minor episode, no doubt. But when you consider it in light of Vonnegut's career, it takes on a larger significance. For hasn't his anger about various situations, tragedies and indignities been not only the engine that has powered more than a dozen works of fiction over 40 years, but also a profitable activity?

That's true for his publishers, for opportunists like the reporter and the book dealer, and of course for Vonnegut himself. "It's just a matter of luck whether you make a fit with your society or not," the writer says modestly, sitting in his Manhattan kitchen. "It's a real Adam Smith market. There's only about 300 of us who make a living from this."

His new novel, Hocus Pocus, is fitting in nicely. The public likes it, the critics have generally voted thumbs up, and the author himself, grading this book as he has done with his previous efforts, gives it an A. Perhaps part of its appeal is the picture it paints of this country slowly sinking in its own sludge:

The year is 2001 now.

If all had gone the way a lot of people thought it would, Jesus Christ would have been among us again, and the American flag would have been planted on Venus and Mars.

No such luck!

As in most Vonnegut novels, people are secondary to the main character, which is society. His training as an anthropologist—an M.A. from the University of Chicago—allows him to see culture as a gadget. And a glance at the newspaper tells him all he needs to know about the world. But his final verdict is surprising: "There is some wickedness, but almost all of it is ignorance and stupidity. I think we are a good-hearted people."

Oh, yeah? What about the looting of the savings and loans?

"That's some people," he says, and then adds: "If any of my kids did what Neil [Bush] did, I would never speak to that kid again."

So he'd be upset?

"Filled with hate! Filled with hate!"

But even Vonnegut isn't completely consistent. On his front door of this one-time G.E. public relations man is a faded sticker: "Boycott G.E. Stop Nuclear Weapons." In his kitchen, meanwhile, he has an enormous G.E. refrigerator.

"Do I?" he asks, turning to look. "I don't even know."

He worked for the company in the late '40s, quitting in '51 when he started earning enough on his short stories to live on. "I was so proud of this country when I worked for GE. It was a great company then and a great country then. And now, I have such a sense of letdown."

People who like his books, he believes, feel the same way. "In one of my books I had the motto, 'Lonesome no more.' I suggested that to Sarge Shriver when he and McGovern were running for president and vice president. I get letters from people saying, 'you think just the way I do.'" And he laughs a great big rumbling laugh that seems to frequently issue from him. "They thought they were all alone."