That tipping point called death has turned a living legend into a legend. Kurt Vonnegut died last night at the age of 84, and from his appearance on the daily show in 2005, it is obvious that he remained a cranky sarcastic iconoclast up until the very last.
His stories were wild mixtures of science fiction and autobiography. Who knows maybe Slaughterhouse 5 had more truth then we realized. Maybe he’s up there on some distant planet in the future living it up with a buxom woman and being catered on by disembodied aliens. No matter where he is in time, his body is gone but his voice is still with us through his books, which were an idiom all their own.
Actually I correct myself—he’s more than a legend. His name is a metaphor for the idiom he created and lived. Vonnegut is cemented in our language as something more than just a name, which is really one of the highest honors any writer can hope to achieve.
p.s. unsurprisingly the blog-o-sphere is alive with remembrance posts.