Everything was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt
I saw Kurt Vonnegut speak only once, in the mid-1990s, at a packed auditorium in Gainesville, Florida. He must have delivered the speech — about the joys of trips to the post office and the human contact they bring — a hundred times before and a thousand times afterward, but he made it new that night, and, from the sound of it, every time afterward.
Twenty dollars says even — maybe especially — so-called literary hatchet-man Dale Peck is mourning the great writer’s death.
Perhaps, as he insists repeatedly in Timequake, things will be better when he’s dead; perhaps his followers will stop searching his books for some clue as to how their guru lives, and simply read them. But he seems to doubt it.
From my seat of despair, I can manage to bring you only the Times’ featured author page, Vonnegut reading from Slaughterhouse Five, more audio, and these selections from my own site archives:
- Charles Shields to write Vonnegut’s biography, with blessing;
- Vonnegut on censorship, suicide, humor, moralizing, and more;
- Vonnegut on the dangers of reading;
- Vonnegut gives up on signing books with asshole drawings;
- Vonnegut smokes in face of smoking ban;
- Vonnegut and I play poker — in my dreams.
See also Blue Girl’s Why There are Any Bluebirds Left I Don’t Know, and Ed Champion’s massive collection of links.
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