I was reading today.  Yeah, so what’s new?  But today I was flipping through The Best American Non-Required Reading of 2008.  Okay, I was reading something only a very, very small handful of other people will even be aware of, once again what’s new?  There was a section in it titled “The Best American Kurt Vonnegut Writings”.  That sounds retarded, yes, but there was a good reason for it to be there.  I thought it was strange at first, but I went with it because I like Vonnegut.  I like Vonnegut a lot.  So I was reading the one-line excerpts from several of his books, enjoying it all immensely without questioning why an anthology of writing from 2008 would include a section of quotes from a writer who hasn’t published anything recently until I reminded myself of something I said once upon a time: “He’s easily the funniest man alive.”  So it goes.  Yeah, sadly, Mr. Vonnegut left the world of the living last year, and this chapter was included to commemorate a giant among American writers.

I would like to say that Vonnegut and Joseph Heller are the reason I never joined the military.  The truth is, long before reading Slaughterhouse V or Catch-22 I considered applying at the Air Force Academy.  What stopped me?  Push-ups.  All of the military academies required P.E. classes, and I sure as shit wasn’t signing up for that.

That’s enough about me, though.  I’m writing about Kurt tonight.  A military man himself in his youth, Vonnegut as a writer was one of the most vocal pacifists ever to get much attention.

                “I certainly heard plenty of last words by dying American footsoldiers.  None of them, however, had illusions that he had somehow accomplished something worthwhile in the process of making the Supreme Sacrifice.”

Hocus Pocus (1990)

He wrote extensively on the subject, and never lowered himself to spouting the now hackneyed quote that I’m about to throw out, but… can’t we all just get along?  Agreeing to disagree is a much-maligned state of affairs, but isn’t it preferable to killing each other?  His views on killing are obliquely described here:

That there are devices such as firearms, as easy to operate as cigarette lighters and as cheap as toasters, capable at anybody’s whim of killing Father or Fats or Abraham Lincoln or John Lennon or Martin Luther King, Jr., or a woman pushing a baby carriage, should be proof enough for anybody that, to quote the old science fiction writer Kilgore Trout, “being alive is a crock of shit.”

Timequake (1997)

Kilgore Trout, of course is the fictional character recurring in several of Vonnegut’s books who represents the lowest common denominator of public sentiments.  Vonnegut, of course, treasured life.  His own sentiments about life are more accurately shown in a line from the same book.  “I am eternally grateful… for my knack of finding in great books… reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else might be going on.”

Despite whatever shit we may encounter.  No matter what wreckage we may have to dig through, whether it be something as immensely devastating as the rubble left of Dresden in WWII or something as relatively simple as digging for change between couch cushions for gas money to get to work for a paycheck that will keep food on the table, human life is something that should not be taken lightly.

And I realize that I’ve taken a much darker angle than I intended.  I set out to sing praise for a man who did, in fact, dig through the rubble after the carpet-bombing of Dresden in WWII and still found it in his heart to appreciate and love life in a way that few adults are capable of.  I wanted to wish out loud that I, like Vonnegut, could manage to face the world—all that shit piled high for as far as the eye can see—and still find humor at every corner—still manage to never truly grow up.

Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.

Cat’s Cradle (1963)

In a way, he begged us all not to grow up.  The heavy, dark themes he wrote on tell us that he endured a lot of pain.  The puerile humor that laced those stories tells us that he was a strong man whose inner child lived on and made him probably the most well-adjusted adult I’ve ever “known” (and despite never meeting the man I do feel that I know him, in a sense). 

But I’m not really going anywhere with this.  At least not anywhere coherent.  So I leave you with two more lines that I hope will be at least a bit inspirational.

If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts.  I’m not kidding.  The arts are not a way to make a living.  They are a very human way of making life more bearable.  Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake.  Sing in the shower.  Dance to the radio.  Tell stories.  Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem.  Do it as well as you can.  You will get an enormous reward.  You will have created something.

A Man Without a Country (2005)

Listen: We are here on Earth to fart around.  Don’t let anybody tell you any different.

Timequake (1997)

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