American counterculture and literary idol, Kurt Vonnegut, died yesterday at the age of 84. He was in Manhattan, and his death was the result of brain injuries from a fall several weeks ago.
Vonnegut came to New York in 1947, moving to Schenectady and taking a job with General Electric Company. Three years later he sold his first short story, “Report on the Barnhouse Effect,” to Collier’s magazine and moved with his family to Cape Cod. His first novel “Player Piano” was published in 1952. He would go on to write thirteen more (even though after "Slaughterhouse-Five" was published and hit number one on the bestseller list, he went into depression and vowed he'd never write another). In that novel he drew a headstone with the epitaph: "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.''
This was obviously his most well-known work, and one of a series of novelistic treatments of war and society in the late 1960s and early 1970s that were adapted for the screen––some more successfully than others––that characterized not just the battlefied, but the mentality of society as a dangerous minefield. "Slaughterhouse-Five" was published in 1969, but wasn't ushered to the big screen until Rober Altman's MASH (1970) and Mike Nichols Catch-22 (1970) had already reached the theaters. All three films addressed the schizophrenic possibilities presented by civilized people engaging in the inhumane activity of war, although Vonnegut creatively took the comparison to the next level, by leaping his main character from one domestic- to wartime- to sci-fi- to postwar- milieu after another.
Fresh from such successful projects, Vonnegut would go on to create novels like "Breakfast of Champions", which combined then-expected absurdist narratives with author illustrations. In 1997 came his para-autobiographical novel, "Hocus Pocus," his most self-revealing point as a novelist who was never going to write an autobiography. It is another absurdist story that in this case involves a war veteran-turned-teacher to challenged wealthy children. When the teacher is accused of anti-Americanism, he is thrown out of his school and forced to work at a prison across a lake from the school. There is a buildup and climax we won't ruin.
Vonnegut also wrote plays, his first effort being “Happy Birthday, Wanda June,” which opened Off Broadway in 1970 to mixed reviews (here's the NY Times review of its revival in 1983). More recently he was an artist, participating in the project The Greatest Album Covers That Never Were, where he created an album cover for Phish called "Hook, Line and Sinker", which has been included in a traveling exhibit for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
In 1997 he said in the prologue to “Timequake” that it would be his last novel, it was. Over his career, critics would say that Vonnegut could be heavy-handed or pedantic with his themes. Others would criticize him as trivializing timely issues with less-than-serious characterizations. That was the essence of Vonnegut: too serious for his detractors, too frivolous for his critics; only just right for his appreciators.




RIP
There are so many appropriate Vonnegut quotes, that it is impossible to even know where to begin, but yes, his old words "everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt" seem prescient.
Supposedly he wanted this as his epitaph:
THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
WAS MUSIC
I think the prohibition of semicolons would be a fitting tribute for Kurt today.
Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.
Hey. It's that guy from Back to School.
while you are not incorrect that he made an album cover for phish, that design was ultimately not used for the live disc that became "slip, stitch, and pass"
from Hocus Pocus:
He was reading a cheap-looking booklet. Since he was literate, I thought he might be one of the people I was being hired to divert with knowledge. I was right. His name was Abdullah Akbahr. With my encouragement, he would write several interesting short stories. One, I remember, was supposedly the autobiography of a talking deer in the National Forest who has a terrible time finding anything to eat in winter and gets tangled in barbed wire during the summer months, trying to get at the delicious food on farms. He is shot by a hunter. As he dies he wonders why he was born in the first place. The final sentence of the story was the last thing the deer said on Earth. The hunter was close enough to hear it and was amazed. This was it: “What the blankety-blank was that supposed to be all about?”
Kurt's up in heaven now.
Breakfast of Champions is just wonderful. If you're not up on your Kurt, go out and get that today. Great place to start.
Thanks ben alt,
I needed that laugh.
:::
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’ ”
Farewell, Kurt.
:::
i think "god bless you dr. kevorkian" is such a touching book, in a truly absurd way.
so it goes...
yup, so.....
...
Um...
Jen? Aren't you going to attribute the bulk of your post to the NY Times obituary? I think it's only appropriate.
You might find the video tribute to Kurt Vonnegut very moving:
Search for "So It Goes" on YouTube.
I got to shake the man's hand when he came into B&N Union Square back in the mid 90's to film a credit card commerical for tv in the cafe. An amazing writer and a very kind gentleman. His work will challenge, amuse & inspire generations yet unborn.
R.I.P.
I was in tears when I first read the news at work. Such a brilliant, conscious man; I'd hoped he'd be immortal. I always wanted to stalk him around the UN and adopt him as my grandpa.
I am reminded of a story and acquaintance who lived, for a while, in Northampton, MA, once told me of meeting Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. At the time Vonnegut was a guest lecturer at Smith College for a time and was often found strolling around Northampton.
This acquaintance of mine was attempting to mount his bicycle and had pedaled twice before his right foot slipped off the pedal. He crashed in a tangle with his bicycle skinning his knee and derailing his bike chain in the process. As he was attempting to untangle himself from his bicyle and dust himself off, he looked up and noticed a tall older man with wily hair, glasses, and a moustache. As he picked gravel from the wound in his knee, he immediately recognized who it was: Kurt Vonnegut.
Vonnegut looked down at him, pathetic and slightly bleeding, and said, "Well. Aren't YOU the tragic hero?" Vonnegut then smiled and wheezed with laughter at his own wit and ambled off.