FINAL GIRL POP CHAT

On April 10th Kurt Vonnegut, 84, passed away from complications of brain injuries obtained during a recent fall, presumably taking alter-ego Kilgore Trout with him. So it goes.

Heir apparent to Mark Twain, Vonnegut was a uniquely American artist chronicling all the contradictions of our society from WWII through the Bush regime. He was a brilliant diagnostician of humanity’s maladies – he saw our short-sighted impulsivity, our greed, jealousy, and national vanity. His cure was hearty doses of satire and pathos, sarcasm and geniune compassion delivered in riotous, whimsical prose. Unlike the recent slate of trendy hipster writers who can barely conceal their contempt for the characters they create, wrapping smug misanthropy in self-referential irony – Vonnegut was right there in the muck with his unfortunate dupes and with us. Vonnegut’s characters were everyday heroes – in the face of repeated absurdities, their utter insignificance in the universe, and the inevitability of scientific progress or destruction – their beauty lied in the fact that they persisted, like Sisypus rolling his boulder up the mountain only to have it fall down again and start over.

In his last interview with Rolling Stone, and his last nonfiction book Man Without A Country, he seemed heartbroken about the war on terror and the way the Bush administration was commandeering the country. And this was a man who survived the firebombing of Dresden. But even his humor was no longer a refuge for his disillusionment in our rulers and the people. He wanted more from us. Expected more. For that faith, for the laughs, God Bless You Mr. Vonnegut. Wherever you are.

“When you’re dead. You’re dead. Make love when you can. It’s good for you.” Kurt Vonnegut