Kurt Vonnegut freaking died.
Don blurted the news as relayed from our editor/hacker/supreme-cyberstalker/all-around-mr-nice-guy Bryant.
Now I wax nostalgic on my amateurish literary pursuits back in college. Vonnegut is one of the literary heroes who encouraged me to just pick up my pen and write, surely a definitive yardstick of an excellent writer.
Breakfast of Champions was his first work that I read. I already considered him one of the best first person writers I have encountered even before I finished the book. (Though Ria says that I should also try Somerset Maugham, who is also greatly recommended by Joboy). I’m not good at description, but suffice to say that Breakfast of Champions was one of those novels that I would be really willing to read again one of these days. It is irreverent, innovative, funny, sardonic and insanely satirical. Plus, Vonnegut made it look so easy I was encouraged to write a few lines by myself. Some inspiration huh.
Well, there goes my inspiration. Dead at 83. If only to pay tribute to him, and cherish one of the things we have in common, may we remember him for the epitaph he once wished to be engraved on his tomb
“THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
I’m now seriously melting in mush.