One of my literary heroes died yesterday at age 84. Today's New York Times has a good obit.
Vonnegut's dark wit, playful voice and humanist values helped me and millions of other teenagers live through the 70s with our sanity intact. He was funny, imaginative and, above all, outraged to the core at the cruelty of war and the absurdity of existence.
He was a snarky, charming athiest; the Mark Twain of his time.
His work is probably one of the main reasons I became a writer, and when I think about it I realize that he's with me every time I string a sentence together.
Goodbye, Mr. V.