It is with a heavy heart that I write these words: Kurt is up in Heaven now. Although he's no longer with us, saying that sentence allows us to share a laugh with him one last time. In his last book, A Man Without a Country, he wrote the following:
"We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, 'Isaac is up in Heaven now.' It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of Humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, 'Kurt is up in Heaven now.' That's my favorite joke."
I remember reading Vonnegut for the first time like it was yesterday. It was sophomore year of high school and we read Harrison Bergeron in English class. I instantly fell in love with his writing and I was desperate for more. Later that day, I went to A Novel Idea, a used bookstore in Sylvania, and asked if they had any Kurt Vonnegut novels for sale. I remember the guy who worked there telling me that it was a rare day that anyone actually sold them a Vonnegut novel, but I was in luck, because that day they had one book of his. It was a collection of short stories called Welcome to the Monkey House. I read it from cover to cover several times. It was fitting that the second story of the book was Harrison Bergeron. I've since collected nearly everything he's written and take every opportunity to share his work with others.
I received his last book, the aforementioned A Man Without a Country, from my brother Eric as a gift. I knew as I read it that it would most likely be the last book he wrote, so I intentionally read it slowly. It's a collection of short essays and I could easily have read it in one sitting, but I stretched it out over the course of a few weeks in order to savor his writing. In one essay, he writes of going out to buy an envelope. In this story, he mentions that he lives in Manhattan on 48th street, between 2nd and 3rd avenues. As I read that story, I was sitting in my apartment on 56th street, a mere 8 blocks uptown from him. Ever since then, I've been on the lookout for him. Every time I left my apartment, I secretly hoped to be able to walk by him on the street. I didn't want to stop him and talk to him, for I didn't want to waste his time. I was simply hoping to be able to give him a nod of appreciation as we passed on the street. Alas, I never got that chance and now I never will.
It's a very sad day today. We've lost one of the greatest writers of all time.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
November 11, 1922 - April 11, 2007
I received his last book, the aforementioned A Man Without a Country, from my brother Eric as a gift. I knew as I read it that it would most likely be the last book he wrote, so I intentionally read it slowly. It's a collection of short essays and I could easily have read it in one sitting, but I stretched it out over the course of a few weeks in order to savor his writing. In one essay, he writes of going out to buy an envelope. In this story, he mentions that he lives in Manhattan on 48th street, between 2nd and 3rd avenues. As I read that story, I was sitting in my apartment on 56th street, a mere 8 blocks uptown from him. Ever since then, I've been on the lookout for him. Every time I left my apartment, I secretly hoped to be able to walk by him on the street. I didn't want to stop him and talk to him, for I didn't want to waste his time. I was simply hoping to be able to give him a nod of appreciation as we passed on the street. Alas, I never got that chance and now I never will.
It's a very sad day today. We've lost one of the greatest writers of all time.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
November 11, 1922 - April 11, 2007
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1 comment:
Hear hear.
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