Kurt Vonnegut is the closest thing I’ve had to a hero. His novels are not only great works of literature (if not necessarily in the traditional sense) but also, as thematic, semiautobiographical riffs on the human condition, they speak to me in ways that no other books have. Plus they’re funny as hell.
Cursed with a well-earned pessimism concerning life on this earth amongst both the kind and unkind souls who surround us, I really thought he was going to live forever. Surely longer, at least, than the 84 years he ended up with.
So it goes.
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