K.V. died Wednesday, leaving a gaping hole in the American literary landscape. Like many of his 30- and 40-something fans, I discovered his novels at some point in high school, probably because I was a sci-fi junkie and had read Harrison Bergeron in junior high so recognized the name. Breakfast of Champions and Cat's Cradle quickly became part of my social circle's in jokes, and we were delighted when our band director had us play an oddball experimental piece called "The Purple-Roofed Ethical Suicide Parlor" that we of course immediately recognized as being based on his short story. The first email in my box today was a note from a high school friend, mourning the loss of one of our literary heroes. (Though K.V. thought him a fascist, the only previous death to his me this was was Robert Heinlein's when I was in college).
The obits and tributes are flowing around the net today, with none so surprising (and oddly heartwarming) as the discussion at fark.com, where the typically snarky attacks were replaced by the online equivalent of a group hug and a river of tears. KV clearly made his mark...perhaps the most poignant comment was something along the lines of "I've only cried at the deaths of two celebrities in my life: Mr. Rogers and Kurt Vonnegut.
So our favorite humanist has gone to be with god. We wish him well.
So it goes...
