Over 2 1/2 years ago, Kurt Vonnegut passed away, leaving behind the legacy of his 26 books, the legacy of his humor and the yet-to-be determined legacy of his unpublished short fiction-14 stories in all, under the heading Look at the Birdie. In the introduction to the book, which was released in October, Vonnegut's friend, novelist Sidney Offit, gets right to the skepticism of fans: "It may well be that these stories didn't appear in print because for one reason or another they didn't satisfy Kurt."For the first 100 pages or so you might agree. The first few stories (particularly "Ed Luby's Key Club" and "Shout About It from the Housetops") lack Vonnegut's subtle sense of tragedy.

"Ed Luby's Key Club," especially, with its pile of absurd plot developments, leaves little room for relief and requires the reader have a staggering threshold for pain. The 50-page extravaganza traces a straight-laced couple's journey from snubbed restaurant patrons- turned away on its 14th anniversary after years of patronage by former Capone henchman/restaurant owner Luby-to wrongly accused murderers, facing an ill fate in the corrupt town of Ilium. But fear not, justice does present itself. In fact, it quite literally unveils itself. A Kafka fan might appreciate the tale, but the story's wrenching themes would, in all likelihood, puncture a hole in most readers' sympathetic cushions.

"A Song for Selma" does a better job of achieving the combination of despair and hope for which Vonnegut is known. Timid Selma's clerical error (confusing weight for IQ within the file cards of the school records) convinces the school genius, Schroeder, and the school sluggish oaf, Big Floyd, that they are wrongly aligned in the intellectual spectrum. The story's emphasis on IQ may induce a smile, reflecting on the rigid ways of the "good" old days (such a contrast to modern times, with opportunity-friendly tests like the SAT), but the smile lasts throughout the tale. Selma's mistake creates a surge of motivation (on Floyd's part) and resignation (on Schroeder's), and culminates in a ballad in her honor, which all agree-high IQ or not-is a masterpiece.

Look at the Birdie seems an authentic Vonnegut product with the comedic puzzle "Little Drops of Water." Vonnegut's classic irony carries the tale, skewing the common understanding of the comfort of habit with the characterization of Larry, the rigid bachelor singing coach. Through Larry's unwavering dedication to routine-even the unwanted aspects which accrue-Vonnegut delivers an insightful and underhanded commentary on the stuff of life, reducing it all to something we have to do because, well, we're used to doing it.

The best of Vonnegut's stories brush aside the author's abundant self-doubts, which he provides in a letter to editor Walter J. Miller in the book's preface: "This letter is sententious crap, shot full of self-pity. But it's the kind of letter writers seem to write; and since I quit [General Electric], if I'm not a writer then I'm nothing."

With that reflection, so determined and yet so defeated in all the ways Vonnegut and his work is known to be, how fitting that the last short story, and perhaps the most profound, in the collection, should be entitled "The Good Explainer." The tale contains a subdued suspense throughout, presenting Joe Cunningham from Cincinnati, who comes to Chicago under the misinformation that Dr. Abekian is a famous fertility specialist with knowledge about Joe and his wife's childless state. The truth lurks somewhere in Abekian's subconscious, and in a concrete place in Mrs. Cunningham's memory, but more clear than the direction the story takes is the difficulty of placing the truth onto the surface.

There are no traces of fantastical qualities or even Vonnegut's trademark black humor in "The Good Explainer." Instead a pain-not sharp, but heavy-penetrates, inspiring memories of unfortunate events to which explanations are hard to apply, a nutshell of the circumstances that provided the foundation of Vonnegut's literary career.