God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007).

I first came across Vonnegut’s work while an undergrad at Indiana University. There was some national essay-writing contest that I stumbled across in the English Department, and the prize was something crazy like maybe $500 or $1,000. For anyone who’s ever done any kind of writing, this kind of money was like the lottery.

I forget the actual topic of the essay, but it had to do with Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. At the time, I had no real clue about Vonnegut’s writing, his style, his voice. I heard the name, Vonnegut, and immediately in my mind every pretentious English major I knew (besides me, of course) came flooding to my mind.

I, for some reason, imagined snotty Lit types bandying his name about, talking their elitist Lit talk amongst one another. Have you read Vonnegut? Oh, you simply must read Vonnegut.

Seriously? I have no idea why I had this strange association. But I did.

I remember reading God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater with a notebook and a pencil, sitting at a coffee shop called “The Daily Grind.” I remember being awfully caffeinated while reading, and I remember being at that coffee shop for many hours, over many days. I remember how surprised I was at Vonnegut’s voice, and how very un-pretentious he was.

When I think back about Vonnegut’s work, I’m immediately drawn to my college years, an undergraduate living in a basement room in a house with four other guys. I remember sitting in that room and reading, incessantly. I remember a quirky style he used in Galapagos, where he foreshadowed a character’s demise by adding an asterix before their name. I remember creating a psuedonym for a student zine, and employing that same style in the hopes that one random person might get that obscure joke.

When I think about Vonnegut, I think about being young.

Since I heard the news, I’ve come across various snippets of his writing, from other blogs and other articles. It’s been a long while since I read anything of his. Perhaps I should pull Cat’s Cradle off my shelf, and give it a re-read. It would be nice to hear his voice again.

So it goes.