So Kurt Vonnegut has ascended to the big slaughterhouse in the sky. I hope it’s one of the Temple Grandin variety. Wouldn’t want Kurt to be uncomfortable.
There’s been a lot written already about Vonnegut’s passing, much of it of the “OMG!!!” and “Vonnegut changed my life” variety. You won’t find any of that here. Nor will I be poorly photoshopping Kurt Vonnegut into some semi-but-not-really wacky location. He deserves better than that. Instead I’m going express my thoughts on his death in a simple and efficient fashion that even dullest of you idiots can comprehend.
Vonnegut > Pynchon
Now I worship at the altar of all things Pynchon. Had I not read The Crying of Lot 49, I never would have become an English major, which means I never would have started down the path that has allowed to me leading such an exciting, literary life, filled with jobs and activities that totally relate to everything that interests me intellectually. But there is something to be said for accessibility. Pynchon is rough. Not Finnegan’s Wake rough, but Gravity’s Rainbow is not the kind of novel you read aloud to sexy ladies in your James Brown Celebrity Hot Tub. Well, I would, but I’m a pretentious jackass.
Vonnegut wrote novels that were smart, funny and relevant. He wrote them in a way that was a joy to read, complete with silly drawings. And for that, I thank him. Or, I would thank him, but he’s dead, so I guess I’ll just wait until the rapture, when he comes back as a zombie. I’ll be sure to thank him then.
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