God Bless You, Kurt Vonnegut

I was very sad to hear the news about Kurt Vonnegut's death. He was such a fabulous writer—the kind of stuff that punches you right in the gut. Not to mention the razor-sharp wit. I discovered his books my sophomore year in high school and spent the better part of one semester gradually making my way through the Vonnegut section in our twee, underfunded library. Breakfast of Champions, Player Piano, Slapstick . . . I loved them all. Anyway, I think it's pretty strange that his death was the result of injuries he suffered during a fall. I remember reading that he and his sister LOVED to watch people fall down; they thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world. So the fact that he died as a result of falling seems . . . is ironic the word? People tend to throw that term around willy-nilly (and often incorrectly) so I always hesitate to use it. Maybe it's safer to say it's an odd way to go for someone how found such humor in trips and spills. I decided to re-read Slaughterhouse 5 in memory of Mr. Vonnegut. So it goes.