Geoffrey Wu's Blog

All the King’s Horses, by Kurt Vonnegut, focuses on the story of a group of American soldiers, who are led by Colonel Kelly. The men, Kelly’s family, and two pilots were flying when their plane crashed somewhere “on the Asiatic mainland”. They were captured by a rogue communist leader, Pi Ying, who offered to play a game of chess with Colonel Kelly. He gave them a chance at freedom—if the Americans won, then they were set free, but if Pi Ying won, then every one of Kelly’s men would be executed. However, there is a catch: Kelly’s men are the chess pieces, and if any one of them gets captured, then they are immediately killed. 

Welcome to the Monkey House, the collection that this short story appears in.

As someone who plays a lot of chess and is on the chess team, the story piqued my interest right from the title, which references two chess pieces: the king and the knight (which is in the shape of a horse). However, it is in the middle of the work that is particularly gripping. Vonnegut does a great job making you feel what the Colonel is feeling. When Pi Ying captures one of Kelly’s pawns, Vonngeut writes, 

“Kelly’s calm was shattered, and with it the illusion of the game. The pieces in his power were human beings again….He was no more fit to make decisions of life and death than the rawest recruit…Another two minutes crept by as he struggled to force himself to be rational. ‘I can’t do it,’ he whispered at last. He slouched now” (5).

The tension, the shock, and the grief is palpable. You can see and feel how conflicted Kelly feels—he knows that he needs to play on with the game, or else every single person will die—yet each capture is directly responsible for the death of one of his men. (Vonnegut creates an even tenser moment later in the story, which I will not spoil here, but it’s not a hyperbole to say I was literally on the edge of my seat.)

From the start, Vonnegut draws comparisons between the game of chess and battle, writing “Pi Ying said that their fight against death would be no different, philosophically, from what all of them, except Kelly’s wife and children, had known in battle. In a cold way, it was true ­­­no different, philosophically” (1). Vonnegut suggests that commanders in battles in wars were just like players in chess—they both had little regard for each individual piece and were more focused on winning the overall battle or game. In chess, for example, capturing pawns is not only usually inconsequential, it is expected—yet chess players do not feel any sympathy for the pawn as it leaves the board. 

(Side note: this theme of using people as pieces in a game of chess isn’t unique to this story—in one of the Harry Potter books, basically the same situation occurs, where Harry Potter’s friends are some of the pieces of a chess game.) 

Vonnegut continues this analogy at the end of the story: “‘Unfortunately, the time and the place are up to you,’ said Colonel Kelly wearily. ‘If you insist on arranging another game, issue an invitation, Major, and I’ll be there’” (10). Here, he draws upon another analogy. Having experienced this victory firsthand, Colonel Kelly is wary of engaging in another battle (another chess match). However, it is impossible to avoid a battle forever, so if Major Barzov (a companion and observer of Pi Ying) wanted another match, then he could get one (in war, this would mean launching an attack). Vonnegut shows that the people who have experienced war, battle, and bloodshed, are generally the ones who want to avoid it; since these people have firsthand experience, they are the most reliable sources on whether war should be fought or not, so Vonnegut is making a powerful anti-war statement. 

The author Magelinski uses the same line to conclude that “Vonnegut uses this story to criticize countries who are quick to go to war. He shows how war may start against a [sic] countries will, but they are too quick to forget the horrors that war brings.” This is arguably a stretch—it seems that Pi Ying was already set on having this battle, and this was well-thought out, rather than a split second decision. However, it is still reasonable to conclude that the story is a criticism of countries that go to war quickly, since the story shows the potential horrors of being at war through the lens of chess.

The Scandinavian defense, which was played in the story.

The chess aspects themselves are not the most accurate. The story doesn’t use modern chess notation (“Kelly pointed to the fourth square in the second row of the huge chessboard” (4), when modern notation would call this square d2), but I think this is a good thing for the story. It helps the story be comprehended more easily, without being bogged down on technical chess details. Also, as pointed out by a blogger, the opening moves used in the game are almost never played at the serious level. However, the focus of the story isn’t on the details of the chess game—nor should it be—it is on its gripping narrative and compelling message.

 

Bibliography:

“‘It Was the Narcotic of Generalship. It Was the Essence of War.” Kurt Vonnegut’s Short Story, ‘All the King’s Horses.’” Bibliophilopolis, 16 Dec. 2019, bibliophilica.wordpress.com/2010/10/14/it-was-the-narcotic-of-generalship-it-was-the-esence-of-war-kurt-vonneguts-short-story-all-the-kings-horses/. 

Magelinski. Vonnegut Tutorial, 12 Apr. 2017, blogs.lt.vt.edu/magelinski/author/magelinski/.

In hindsight, my taste of books in 7th grade was quite lacking, unsophisticated. It consisted of a healthy diet of young adult novels, all with a similar theme: they explored the lives of teens who lived in dystopias or futuristic societies and had some kind of supernatural power. The Michael Vey series hit all those. I read about the titular character and his control over electricity– and it was captivating.

After years of English classes and listening to teachers, authors, and avid readers, I’ve heard my fair share of stories about reading. They would stay up and read under the covers, usually with a flashlight, afraid of their parents catching and reprimanding them. But, instead of smuggling a hardcover book, I read a pirated version of Richard Paul Evans’ Michael Vey series. Instead of a flashlight, my only source of illumination was my phone. I was determined to read the next chapter, as soon as I could, even if there were better options: going to the library the next day, checking out the book, or placing a hold were all too much for me. Yet somehow I thought it was easier to download an illegal copy of the next book onto my phone.

Michael Vey would be the first and last series that I would pirate. However, it was by no means the only series that always made me want to learn more. Indeed, I remember spending entire days of my summers reading Harry Potter, 8 hours at a time; I also read, bought, and reread all the Percy Jackson books.

By the same token, it would also be a stretch to claim that the Michael Vey books gave me my drive for learning. The Maze Runner and The Hunger Games had already instilled that into me. I don’t think I even learned that much from the series in the long-term. I can’t tell you many details: I don’t remember the names of any of the characters (besides the protagonist); I don’t remember the setting of the book; and, to be honest, I had to search up the name of the author before writing this.

The school system I grew up in ingrained the idea of remembering the small details. Forget an x here, or a negative sign here, or miss a comma, and watch your grades and standardized test scores drop like flies. However, as a young child, I quickly internalized that I should understand concepts, and not details. Only when we look at a work or a concept as a whole can we understand its meaning.

What my memory lacks in details, it makes up for in themes: I remember that Michael Vey has electrical powers; he has to save the world from his evil captors; and he always finds a way to escape any situation. One time, Michael Vey used his control over electricity to create an electromagnet, allowing him to unlock a door.

Michael Vey immersed me in its own world. It was virtual reality, before I had access to virtual reality. Ironically, the book’s experience was so complete, filled with so much vivid detail, that there was too much detail for me to remember. I discovered something psychologists have known for years: the human mind is good at focusing at one, and only one, thing at a time. In this case, I focused on what was in front of me when I was in the world, and the lesser details, subplots, and minor characters disappeared.

The same goes for school. I can’t tell you who the characters were in The Picture of Dorian Gray, but I can tell you what the story was about—Dorians’s picture aged while he stayed forever youthful. I don’t remember the cubic formula (who does?), but I remember that it exists, and it led to the invention of complex numbers. I can’t tell you the name of every general or every battle in the civil war, but I can tell you general trends: the South had the better generals, the North more men and supplies.

And in a way, I know that my experiences and my mindset will prove to be useful for my own battles…whatever they may be.

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