Just finished Vonnegut's Galapagos - a bracing read. The unrelenting sardonic analysis of our big-brained species sees KV in good form, making for one of the most evenly sustained of the later novels. I was completely wrong, by the way, about the novel being written in the third person, as I originally assumed - and was meant to assume. The narrator turns out to be the deceased son of Kilgore Trout, a notion so completely ridiculous that only Vonnegut could make it work.
Despite the utter bleakness of Galapagos there's a strange energy at work here. But I'm officially worn out on KV for the time being and am happily moving on to pastures new.