Apparently, Kurt Vonnegut is Dead.
Wow, it’s only 42 minutes into Thursday and it already sucks as much as it could.
The awesomeness that is Matt Fraction eulogizes him much better than I could, but I will say this. My parents, though I don’t like their politics actually forced my brother and I to read Breakfast of Champions. I was just about to revisit Breakfast as I usually do every year, after I finish Hell’s Angels. To which, I am still depressed about Hunter. I have an extra copy of Rolling Stone magazine dedicated to him and I’ve been meaning to cut out the great pictures and such in it and make a picture frame collage of his stuff. In the two years since he’s passed away, I can’t bring myself to do it. Reading this book is the first time since he’s died that I’ve read anything of his and it still makes me really, really sad.
Something tells me I’ll be depressed about this one for a long long time. His “Requiem” poem at the end of his obit, just destroys me:
“When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
‘It is done.’
People did not like it here.”
Good night, good sir, we’ll miss you.
