Goodnight, Mr. Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut is dead. The world feels more boring already.
I read in an introduction he had written to one of his novels an anecdote about how he once, while smoking in a bar, answered an inquiry as to what he was doing with the assertion that he was “committing suicide by cigarette.” In the anecdote, he realized that he didn’t want to smoke any longer. He’s dead at 84, now. I hope he’s taking long drags with impunity somewhere in the ether.