Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut died.

I miss him, already. Oh, I know he wasn't actively writing novels any more. I know he wasn't making public appearances lately. But, still, I miss him. His wit, his insight, his black humor. He's gone, and the world is a little less for its loss.

I know that he was the rage in college dorms in the late 60s and early 70s, but I was too young for college then, so I first encountered Vonnegut in junior high. I don't even remember which of his novels was the first one I read. I read them all. Repeatedly. I'll probably read them all, again. Not today, though. It would be too hard.

The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. Kilgore Trout. Billy Pilgrim. Bokonism (sp). Breakfast of Champions. There was a piece he did, nonfiction, on the genocide of the Ibo tribe, in Nigeria, in the 70s. Heartbreaking and funny. Left me gasping in pain over the evil that people do, the evil that indifference lets thrive. Gave me a new definition for "sorry", one that I've taken to heart and used ever sense.

I don't get starstruck. Actors and actresses don't move me, generally speaking. A performance might, but I don't really care much about the person performing. Writers, though, and singers, seem to resonate within me. Maybe it's because they, unlike actors, give themselves in their work. Vonnegut's books are windows into his past and present. You knew him in reading his books. He made himself vulnerable to share his stories with the world. And now he's gone. A part of me was hoping, until the news came, that we might all get to share another of his stories, infused with his insight into the war and the political mess we're in today. I would have enjoyed reading his story about that.