Dykman: Vonnegut’s death has left void
What does the loss of a cultural icon mean now and how will it affect people in the future?
Published on Thu., April 19th, 2007
“So it goes.”
I’m sure I’m not the first to say it regarding the loss of Kurt Vonnegut, but I’d like to think I am.
And so it did. I learned about his death from my roommate around 2 a.m. last Thursday morning. Instead of exchanging casual greetings or at least trying to not wake me up, he plainly informed me, “Kurt Vonnegut died.”
And armed with my book and a tightly rolled piece of tobacco filled symbolism, I began reading and trying not to slobber too much on the cigarette’s tip, because when you do, the tobacco has a way of sticking either too or in between your teeth.
It was this feeling of defeat. I suppose it’s a sort of universal feeling, when an icon dies, because we have a couple of choices: a.) pick up the heavy load that he carried and continue his cause or b.) think, that’s too bad and send in a few dollars to the new charity established in his name.
I’d like to stick with Option A. I feel I owe it to Kurt. In my very secular life, he was the closest I ever came to a religious experience: a copy of “Slaughterhouse-Five,” a pack of his famous unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes and a little cynicism.
Well, maybe a lot of cynicism.
And armed with my book and a tightly rolled piece of tobacco-filled symbolism, I began reading and trying not to slobber too much on the cigarette’s tip, because when you do, the tobacco has a way of sticking either too or in between your teeth.
People don’t smoke to look cool. They smoke to practice coordination: Try reading with one hand, ashing with the other and using your tongue to flick tiny pieces of tobacco out of your mouth, all while crossing your legs.
And so it went.
I felt I was really reading the novel, not just turning pages or preparing for a test, but somehow, really preparing for life.
And in the midst of my preparation, he dies. And I’m back to those initial two options. As I flip through The New York Times, I’m pressed to decide quicker than ever. I get this feeling while reading a story about his life that we’ll make a big deal about it now. National Public Radio will interview two or three people close to him and Barnes and Nobles will release a tribute edition of “Cat’s Cradle.” Yet we’ll forget him. If he’s not here leading us, we won’t be able to follow. Soon, he’ll be reduced to a chapter in Norton’s next volume of American literature.
Like I said, maybe a lot of cynicism.
There is such a huge difference between having the book and having the man: The book can grant the experience, but it’s the author who can continue to write them. In my brief experience, I felt like I was communing with the living man, because I knew he was out there doing the same as I was. With him gone, can it be the same to sit and smoke with the book, knowing he will never light one up again?
Dykman is a Westwood freshman in English.
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