As I read a few moments ago (and later read confirmation in the blogs of a few friends), Kurt Vonnegut died tonight.  (Must... resist... writing... what... should... be... written... after... that... statement... must... resist... must... resist... must... resist... must... resist... must...)

So it goes.

(Dah.)

Mike, an old friend whose taste is literature has always been quite similar to mine, noted in his blog this evening that this was the first time that a celebrity death since Kurt Cobain had really meant anything to him.  I would agree with that assessment, except that I would add that this celebrity meant a great deal more to me than Kurt Cobain, even in my 13 year-old naivete back when Cobain finished things off with a shotgun.

Hoosier adolescent malcontents will always have a place in our hearts for Kurt Vonnegut.  It's inevitable.  His writings were laced with Hoosierisms and a definite Indiana sense of humor.  We, as malcontents, could see so much of ourselves in him, his pessimism, his sarcasm, his Hoosierism, his liberalism despite his origins in a very conservative place, his getting out of Indiana and finding success.  By seeing myself in his writings, I could see that my worldview wasn't as fucked up as I thought.  His books and short stories helped me mature.... in writing, in story-telling, in my sense-of-humor, in my confidence.  I mean, jeez, he used goofy science fiction as a metaphor for the world!

And all of this from someone old enough to be my grandfather. 

(Being obsessed for a while with his writings also gave me the nasty habit of using one-sentence paragraphs, which make me look like some sort of poseur rip-offer type.)

It seems quite unfortunate to me that Vonnegut's death will not get nearly the amount of press coverage or anything else that Gerald Ford's death did.  I would argue that Vonnegut meant more to more people than some stupid half-term president that no one ever elected to an executive office.

I mean, Vonnegut stands in a very hallowed company in terms of American literature, perhaps only Twain as his equal.  It's unfortunate (and perhaps quite telling) that a loser president is worth more celebration in this society than one of the country's best authors.  Irony of all, he died after falling and suffering a brain injury, not after chainsmoking his beloved Pall Malls for nearly 70 years.

I'll just hang a couple quotes before I turn off the light and shut the door:

"Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God." 

"Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be."

"I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different."

"We could have saved the Earth but we were too damned cheap."

"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."

"If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind."

"Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops."

"Mark Twain finally stopped laughing at his own agony and that of those around him. He denounced life on this planet as a crock. He died."

Rest in peace.  May the Pall Malls never irritate your senses, and may the typewriter never run out of ink.