And so it goes
Apr. 12th, 2007 07:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beer_good_foamyGood and bad and none of it particularly ficcy.
The good: look at this lovely banner the wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xlivvielockex made for me for completing Minor Character March over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
still_grrr:
Cluffyness!
The bad: this is supposed to be a writing journal only, but this really hit me and I'd just like to joinxlivvielockex, blueanddollsome and others, here's some rambling:
Kurt Vonnegut is dead. He fell and hit his head, 84 years old. Routine for people that age, though a bit ironic for someone who once lived through a bombing that killed more than Hiroshima and saw more innocent people die than most ever will.
To me, who fell in love with his writing as a young teenager and gobbled up everything he wrote, it's a bit like saying the Earth is suddenly a little less round. That sounds drastic, but you don't know what you got till it's gone and when I turned on the news this morning it really threw me for a loop. I've never met the guy and 84 isn't bad for a chainsmoker - but still... Vonnegut was one of the good guys. Fiercely cynical yet sentimental, ironic but idealist, a comedian who was never less than deadly serious, Vonnegut's books painted a world in which we can never rely on the universe or other people to do what's good and right, where everything was one giant ugly beautiful sad hilarious cosmic joke out to fuck with us, and he made us LAUGH doing it. Because when everything becomes absolutely ridiculous, when it seems like life has no worth at all and can be thrown away at a moment's notice by a stupid accident, then it suddenly becomes the most valuable thing in the world. (Yes, I'm almost quoting Joss here, what of it?) Vonnegut was never less than honest about his opinions, the eternal bullshit detector. See the cat? See the cradle?
In his last novel, Timequake, Vonnegut killed off his alter ego Kilgore Trout at 84. I hope Kurt had time to appreciate the irony of him dying at the same age. It's like... well, something from a Kurt Vonnegut novel. And we all know that literary characters can never really die.
Thanks, Kurt. Miss you.
The good: look at this lovely banner the wonderful
xlivvielockex made for me for completing Minor Character March over at still_grrr:Cluffyness!
The bad: this is supposed to be a writing journal only, but this really hit me and I'd just like to join
xlivvielockex, blueanddollsome and others, here's some rambling: All persons living and dead are purely coincidental, and should not be construed. No names have been changed in order to protect the innocent. Angels protect the innocent as a matter of Heavenly routine.
Kurt Vonnegut is dead. He fell and hit his head, 84 years old. Routine for people that age, though a bit ironic for someone who once lived through a bombing that killed more than Hiroshima and saw more innocent people die than most ever will.
To me, who fell in love with his writing as a young teenager and gobbled up everything he wrote, it's a bit like saying the Earth is suddenly a little less round. That sounds drastic, but you don't know what you got till it's gone and when I turned on the news this morning it really threw me for a loop. I've never met the guy and 84 isn't bad for a chainsmoker - but still... Vonnegut was one of the good guys. Fiercely cynical yet sentimental, ironic but idealist, a comedian who was never less than deadly serious, Vonnegut's books painted a world in which we can never rely on the universe or other people to do what's good and right, where everything was one giant ugly beautiful sad hilarious cosmic joke out to fuck with us, and he made us LAUGH doing it. Because when everything becomes absolutely ridiculous, when it seems like life has no worth at all and can be thrown away at a moment's notice by a stupid accident, then it suddenly becomes the most valuable thing in the world. (Yes, I'm almost quoting Joss here, what of it?) Vonnegut was never less than honest about his opinions, the eternal bullshit detector. See the cat? See the cradle?
Being a Humanist means trying to behave decently without expectation of rewards or punishment after you are dead.
In his last novel, Timequake, Vonnegut killed off his alter ego Kilgore Trout at 84. I hope Kurt had time to appreciate the irony of him dying at the same age. It's like... well, something from a Kurt Vonnegut novel. And we all know that literary characters can never really die.
"I am not dying," said Rumfoord. "I am merely taking my leave of the solar system. And I am not even doing that. In the grand, in the timeless, in the chronosynclastic infundibulated way of looking at things. I shall always be here. I shall always be wherever I've been."
Thanks, Kurt. Miss you.
