A Kurt Remark
“Kurt Vonnegut has left for Tralfamadore” my friend Iain wrote me.
So it goes.
Did Lazzaro finally get him? Did a high-gravity day stop his tired old heart? Was there a sliver of Ice-9 hiding in his defiant body? Was he decapitated in a shipyard? Was his body found hanging in a cell? Was he killed by a stray bullet, shot from far away? Has he been spread across the galaxy, another victim of a chronosynclastic infundibulum?
None of these, apparently. Busy busy busy.
The papers say that he died on April 11 from brain injuries as a result of a fall.
It’s how it had to be. Kurt Vonnegut has always died on April 11 as a result of a fall. He always will die on April 11 as a result of a fall. The moment is structured that way.
Vonnegut knew, of course. He knew what humans were doing to the planet, and to each other. He knew where we were headed. And because he knew, and because he said so, I knew. And that knowing has made my life richer. God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.
There’s a part of me that is filled with grief. That part of me awoke at 5:30 this morning, and got out of bed to write this. We need to grieve Mr. Vonnegut, I think. To help him cross the river. Though I can think of no one more likely to make that crossing kicking and screaming. It may be that he still has work to do. Perhaps there will be music. That will help.
But there’s a part of me that knows that Kurt Vonnegut is right where he has always been, rolling around with his dogs between the pages of his books, ready to speak to me when I stop and pull one down off the shelf. His gift to me was his transparency. And that’s still right there. I can flip open to a page, and there it is.
And then I don’t feel quite so alone.
Vonnegut was a member of my karass. We shared a middle name. We