So It Goes

Having just learned from my brother that Kurt Vonnegut has died, I'm having a difficult time this morning. When he first told me I was hoping that it was a joke, but that only lasted for about two seconds. He was, after all, 84 years old. After that I had to sit down and find the obituary, and when I did I felt sick to my stomach. Tears welled up in my eyes, but it wasn't until I started to print the obituary that I started bawling. It's hard to explain why it hit me so hard; I never even met the man. But I have read every one of his novels at least once. I'm even in the midst of re-reading Slaughterhouse-Five, for the third or fourth time.

A friend of mine, Mary, introduced me to Vonnegut when I was working as a security guard at the DeCordova Museum and Sculpture Park in Lincoln, Massachusetts. I was, and still am, very fond of Mary's intellect and creativity. She's an artist out of Somerville, and you can check out some of her work here. She's one of the few people I know of who get better looking with age. Anyway, back around 1997 she gave me Slaughterhouse-Five. Vonnegut's writing blew my mind, and I read every one of his novels as soon as I could get them. Reading one of his books is like having a marvelous conversation with a genius, a cynic, and a deeply compassionate human being. He taught me that one can be saddened at the state of the world and want things to be better, while at the same time fully understanding that (because of who we are) they never will be.

As soon as I became familar with Vonnegut, I felt less alone in the world. His words were comforting on one level, but profoundly challenging on another. After my own bout with mental illness, and my suicide attempts and hospitalizations, I became even closer to the man and his works. His mother killed herself, and he tried to overdose in 1984, having been diagnosed with severe depression. In the men's dormitory at the Arbour Psychiatric Hospital in Jamaica Plain, Boston, I passed some of the time reading, Cat's Cradle, which a friend brought to me. I had read it once before and loved it.

I don't know what else to say, as I sit here with red eyes and a heavy heart. I've taken some pills to take the edge off, as his death is harder to cope with than I thought it would be. At first I felt a bit suicidal, not wanting to live in a world without my friend. And I treasure the feeling I had when I discovered his novels, about a decade ago.

In one of his novels, perhaps it was Hocus Pocus from 1990, he wrote about his career in the forward. He said, "Enough already" about his life. He felt that he had said everything he wanted to say, and it was time to be rid of life. But inside this sad genius there was strength, and he managed to stay with us until yesterday. There's even a lesson for me there, one that I'll be chewing on for awhile.

One last thing. Kurt's son, Mark, who is a pediatrician, once sent a letter to his father that read in part, "We are here to help each other get through life, whatever it is." Kurt liked that, and put it in one of his novels. I like it, too. It speaks to me more than the most elaborate philosphy or ardent religous belief.

Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for breaking out the typewriter and talking to us. You will be missed.