God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut...
The Onion, one of my favorite websites full of fake news and biting satire, recently did a piece on the death of Kurt Vonnegut. I was a bit reticant at first, but they treated it very respectfully, with good humour, and contained two references that are very clearly for Vonnegut fans. Thank you, Onion.
I had plans to read a Vonnegut book, cover-to-cover in one day (which I've done before, and I do have the time now) as my own meagre dedication to the man, but I couldn't do it. As anyone whose read a few of his works knows, he injects so much of his personality and viewpoints on life and society that reading his characters might as well have been reading his diary. I consigned myself to reading a single short-story in Welcome to the Monkey House, and I'll tackle a full novel later on, when I'm ready. Instead, Mallory came over and cheered me right up (as is one of her many talents), pulling me out of my self-indulgant, pitiful, mopey state.
I know that it may sound silly, but I don't care. Vonnegut books for me made the unbearable times tolerable. 8 hours of indignation stocking shelves last summer at age 27 didn't matter as much as when I sat in my hammock for 4 hours afterwards in my front lawn under the maple tree, reading Cat's Cradle, Hocus Pocus, Slapstick, or any of the 8 KV books I devoured that summer. There are still plenty more books to read, but I'm dreading the day I've read them all, because now I know that that really would be all.
"So it goes..."
I had plans to read a Vonnegut book, cover-to-cover in one day (which I've done before, and I do have the time now) as my own meagre dedication to the man, but I couldn't do it. As anyone whose read a few of his works knows, he injects so much of his personality and viewpoints on life and society that reading his characters might as well have been reading his diary. I consigned myself to reading a single short-story in Welcome to the Monkey House, and I'll tackle a full novel later on, when I'm ready. Instead, Mallory came over and cheered me right up (as is one of her many talents), pulling me out of my self-indulgant, pitiful, mopey state.
I know that it may sound silly, but I don't care. Vonnegut books for me made the unbearable times tolerable. 8 hours of indignation stocking shelves last summer at age 27 didn't matter as much as when I sat in my hammock for 4 hours afterwards in my front lawn under the maple tree, reading Cat's Cradle, Hocus Pocus, Slapstick, or any of the 8 KV books I devoured that summer. There are still plenty more books to read, but I'm dreading the day I've read them all, because now I know that that really would be all.
"So it goes..."