Skimming my news feeds in Google Reader this evening before I finish writing for the evening, I ran across the bad news: Kurt Vonnegut, author of some of the best American fiction ever written, died today in Manhattan at the age of 84. Apparently Vonnegut died due to brain injuries sustained in a fall a few weeks ago. So it goes.
Kurt Vonnegut, author of “Cat’s Cradle,” and nearly 20 other works of fiction that helped define the sensibility of the 1960s, died yesterday in Manhattan. He had homes in New York and Sagaponack and was 84.
Tall and rangy, with a mop of curly brown hair and a thick mustache (which, as he grew older, made him look increasingly like his hero Mark Twain), Vonnegut was an iconic figure on the landscape of American
literature, a voice of decency and respect.
I’ve read Slaughterhouse-Five, Mother Night, The Sirens of Titan, Cat’s Cradle, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, Galapagos, Breakfast of Champions, Jailbird, and other works by Vonnegut several times — and I appreciate new aspects of his stories each time I re-read them.
He was truly a gifted author whose work will live on far beyond the man himself. If you’re not familiar with Vonnegut’s work, stop wasting time and get yourself to a library (or Amazon…) and pick up Slaughterhouse-Five and anything else with Vonnegut’s name on it. Vonnegut’s work is full of humor, and wisdom, and it’s well worth reading. I’d be well-pleased to have one-quarter of the talent Vonnegut exhibited in his writing.
