Kurt Vonnegut is in Heaven Now
Well, perhaps. I doubt there’s a heaven, and he did too. Kurt Vonnegut passed away, and I’m broken up. As a writer, I can only dream of being as appreciated as Vonnegut, let alone writing anything reasonably close to his quality. Even though I’d only read a bare handful of his work, namely Cat’s Cradle, Welcome to the Monkey House and Bagombo Snuff Box, he amazed me. More of his books have been on my list to read for ages. Meanwhile, I can’t even finish Thomas Pynchon’s newest[1], let alone the books I have waiting to go afterwards.
Kurt Vonnegut was a cynic, and who wouldn’t be after surviving the Dresden firebombing and being made to clear the bodies of the dead. Of course, I like to think of cynicism as just another word for realism. Vonnegut didn’t sugarcoat anything in his writing. That’s what I like the most about his work. He was matter-of-fact, direct, and gave the reader a lot to think about.
He will be missed by many.
- If you think I’m sad about Vonnegut, when Pynchon dies, I’ll be inconsolable. I still remember how torn up I was over the death of Douglas Adams almost six years ago. ↩

