Broken Frontier

This column has absolutely nothing to do with comics. But as a result of recent events I feel as if there isn’t anything more important to talk about.

Last week the world lost one of the greatest writers of our time. Kurt Vonnegut passed away on Wednesday, April 12th. Vonnegut had suffered brain injuries after a fall in his home weeks ago.

The author is perhaps the most important satirist ever born in the United States. Vonnegut sky-rocketed into success with his novel Slaughterhouse Five. The story is based on Vonnegut’s experience as a prisoner of war during the firebombing of Dresden, in which thousands died. Vonnegut and his fellow prisoners escaped death by being locked in a slaughterhouse. It wasn’t until 23 years after the event that Vonnegut finally wrote about it. His humorist take on war became the doctrine of the counter-culture during the Vietnam era.

Kurt Vonnegut was no fan of the human race. In an interview on the Daily Show he said, “I think we are terrible animals. And I think our planet’s immune system is trying to get rid of us and should.” These feelings are made pretty clear in his novels. He does all this while putting a humorous twist on it all. He makes us look at ourselves in a skewed way that makes you laugh because it’s so ridiculous. Then you slowly start to realize how accurate he really is.

His last book, A Man Without a Country, was the closest thing Vonnegut ever had to a memoir. It collects the columns written by Vonnegut for the In These Times website. In it we see the same Vonnegut we’ve come to know and love—a man angry at the world for it’s injustices towards humanity, who yet at the same time remains hopeful.

No other writer has ever influenced and touched my life as much as Kurt Vonnegut. I was introduced to his work by my friend Paul while we were in high school. The first novel I read of his was Cat’s Cradle. I knew even then, when I wasn’t even old enough to drive a car, that I had just found my favorite author. That label still applies more than a decade later. Have you ever admired that crotchety old man who says whatever the hell is on his mind and doesn’t care about the consequences? Well that’s how Vonnegut spent the whole of his writing career.

But knowing what I do about the man, he wouldn’t want anyone to mourn his death. I tried to think of a clever way to write this column that the man himself might approve of. The truth is I’m just too sad about him dying. He lived a long life. He was 84 years old, and he smoked until the day he died. In one interview he stated, “I’ve got a lawsuit against Brown & Williamson now. Because I have been chain-smoking Pall Malls since I was 11. And on their package they promised to kill me.” In 1984 he tried to take his own life with pills and alcohol. He later joked about screwing it up. At least now he can finally rest.

I’ll end this column with another quote from the man himself: “I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different.”