The very best thing about someone dying is, as the late Kurt Vonnegut is sure to agree, that you have an excuse to think about them.
"Oh," you say, "Kurt Vonnegut is dead? He wrote stuff."
And so it goes that you wonder about this stuff-that-he-wrote.
I did that. I went to Wikipedia and vetted the bio. I then thought I had a very little bit of Vonnegut to catch up with before I could put him to rest.
So I tracked down and read his last book, A Man Without A Country.
Darn good book. In his eighties Vonnegut is still very much Vonnegut. It was so poignant that it almost moved me to tears for its celebration of living even if that in turn is dogged by a massive desperation.
The thing was almost wise and wise isn't a term so much allowed today.
Headline:Wise old Vonnegut dead at 84.
Stiff bickies , Kurt. I guess it had to come some day.
As for me, I get to exploit the opportune excuse offered by Vonnegut's dying to go read what I missed and re-read what I hadn't.
So after I put down Timequake everything else is a going to be e-read.
That's what I call a fortunate death.
You should try to do that more often, Kurt.