Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday at 84. It's one of those things that happens when an author dies. Having read so much of his work, a girl feels that she knows an author a little bit when she doesn't know him at all. One respects a talent like his and a point of view like his and anyone with pretensions of authorship like mine wonders if she could have a little of what he had. I have always like books that made a person think and written in a style that was clear concise and yet lyrical. A pessimist, a humanist, a realist-- a voice that we have needed In These Times:
From a Rolling Stone Interview: "I've given up on it ... It won't happen. ... The Army kept me on because I could type, so I was typing other people's discharges and stuff. And my feeling was, 'Please, I've done everything I was supposed to do. Can I go home now?' That's what I feel right now. I've written books. Lots of them. Please, I've done everything I'm supposed to do. Can I go home now?"
And from that recent tempest in a tea cup in the Australian: "They [suicide bombers] are dying for their own self-respect. It's a terrible thing to deprive someone of their self-respect. It's [like] your culture is nothing, your race is nothing, you're nothing ... It is sweet and noble - sweet and honourable I guess it is - to die for what you believe in."
Kurt Vonegut, (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007)
No comments:
Post a Comment