by Felix Cohen
Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favourite authors and an ongoing inspiration for me to continue leading a virtuous life died last night. So it goes.
The man who spent the last few years of his life reasonably miserable, spurred only to write his last book out of 'contempt; for George Bush, joking about suing the cigarette company for failing to live up to its promise to kill him is not the man who will be remembered by me.
I shall remember the first time I read Slaughterhouse 5 (Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time...), the incredible string of epiphanies that accompanied Breakfast of Champions and, my personal favourite, the undeniable warmth of Cats Cradle, with the wondrous religion of Bokonism it expounds. Vonnegut's writing was simple; but like a naive painting, it had hidden depths that only revealed themselves on consideration. It upsets me that he has passed away, but I hope that his work will inspire a generation of new authors to question the world they live in by looking through the lens of the childrens crusade.
