Kurt Vonnegut, Dead at 84

When I was a teenager, Kurt Vonnegut was one of the most subversive writers I could get my hands on at the Slidell Public Library. It was a small place, about a dozen blocks from our trailer park, an easy bike ride. I got to where I could carry three or four Sci-Fi tomes at a time while riding one-handed, and then would spend the afternoons laid up in the bed reading into the hours of the night. Vonnegut was a staple of those evenings, whether it was Cat's Cradle or Slaughterhouse Five or his story in Harlan Ellison's Again, Dangerous Visions (a book I very nearly stole from the library, Jehovah's Witness or not), "The Great Space Fuck."

I played a better Witness than I actually was.

It was that sort of writing, as much as Cummings's poetry, that convinced me to give writing a try. I've neglected rereading his work for far too long. I'll be getting to it in the near future, I think.

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