So It Goes. - 4/14/2007 in 2005 - 2007: High School

This weekend, I decided that I was going to find Kurt Vonnegut's address and write to him. I had to tell him what his writing does to my brain. I had to tell him, before he died. That's the way I thought of it, too. Honest to god - "before he dies."

I wrote down the address in my first draft before the internet notebook. Then I tried to think of what it is, exactly, that his writing does to my brain. I tried to think of a way to say it and failed miserably several times. The following is in my first draft before the internet notebook, crossed out:

Dear Mr. Vonnegut, I love your books. They are beautiful and true...

Dear Mr. Vonnegut, You describe life very accurately. When I read your books I feel a little better about living in it...

Dear Mr. Vonnegut, It is harder to be unhappy when you are reading Kurt Vonnegut. You should be president of the world...

Dear Mr. Vonnegut, Look, your writing does something to my brain, and I don't even know what it is. It's not that I understand anything more, and it's not that I feel better. But whatever it is, it's important and beautiful, and I keep going to the library seeking it out, and somehow I'm getting this feeling that it's really important that I tell you this before you die...

Kurt Vonnegut died Wednesday night. I never finished the letter. I never thought I would be so upset by the death of someone I didn't even know.

I found out about it on this website. I kind of sat around being stunned for a while. Then I wanted to tell someone about it, but no one was home. When my mom called to say that she would be home in time to get me to work, I told her.

"Kurt Vonnegut died."

"I know," she said. "I left you a note on the counter this morning. You didn't see it?"

"No."

I went downstairs and looked at the note. In my mother's neat, pretty, schoolteachery handwriting, it said:

Kurt Vonnegut died last night at the age of 84. I should be home in time to get you to work today, but maybe not, depending on the weather. Have a good day. - Mom

I wanted to tell somebody else. For a while I considered telling people at work. I finally decided that it would be too weird and whiny, and they probably wouldn't know who he was anyway. But apparantly I looked sad, because Pat asked what was wrong.

"Oh - My favorite writer died..."

"Who's that?"

"Kurt Vonnegut."

"...What kind of stuff did he write?"

"Uh... I guess it was sort of sci-fi... But not really... It was just sort of fiction, but I really liked the style, it was a really unusual style... I guess it's kind of silly that I'm this upset about someone dying when I didn't even know him..."

"No, I can understand. You spent a lot of time with him."

"What did he die of?" said Lyra, in what I think was proabably a concerted effort to be considerate.

"Oh, I dunno. Being old? He was like eighty four."

"...Who was this?"

"Kurt Vonnegut. His most famous book is probably like... Slaughterhouse five?"

She laughed a little. "Dude, I don't know."

"Oh. Right."

This still didn't quite seem sufficient. Even though before I left, four hours later, Pat said, "Feel better honey. I'm sorry about your writer."

(Pat also told me her life's story at around four when there were no customers and nothing to do. It was a fairly interesting life's story, but it was a little weird that she told it to me. Maybe I only think that because I am a cold yankee. Whenever customers are jerks or just fail to be friendly, Pat insists that it is because everybody up here is a cold yankee.)

It finally struck me that Kurt Vonnegut would probably approve of this story - you know, nobody around me really caring as much as I would like them to, the absurd cheeriness of the note my mom left me - it sounds like something he might write. This makes me feel a little better about things.

Rest in peace, man.