Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (November 11, 1922 -- April 11, 2007)

I woke up this morning, on my birthday, to hear from Laura that Kurt Vonnegut had died last night. He has been, for a long time, one of my favorite writers. The first book of his that I read was a hardcover copy of Jailbird that Sean had left behind when he moved to Slovenia. It was the first time I can remember becoming really excited by the way a story was crafted. I did not read another one of his novels until a few years later when I myself had moved away from the United States and was living in Manchester, England. While staying in a stranger's room, I found a copy of Player Piano, Vonnegut's first novel, and discovered that his truely unique voice was not just a fluke. Since then I have been reading and collecting his books whenever I came across them. He had not written a novel since Timequake in 1997, but at least while he was alive, I could hope that might write some more. No more. I have known a number of critics of Vonnegut's that have just viewed him as a hack, or just a sci-fi writer. I think they missed the messages in his stories. He was a humanist, and a constant proponent of the importance of humans need to live in extended families and support one another. We have lost the great optimistic pessimist.

To paraphrase Mr. Vonnegut:

Kurt Vonnegut, who once lived in my hometown Chicago, fell and hurt his head several weeks ago. He died last night. So it goes.

I recommend Cat's Cradle if you want to read one of his books.