Kurt Vonnegut died last night, about the same time we were discussing him in our book group, Santoro's Subversive Salon (a name he surely would have liked).
Vonnegut had a moral clarity that separated the true meaning of life from the horrific noise of marketing, overwork and racing around. In my book I call him the ultimate scamp, ending Slow Is Beautiful with an anecdote about his leisurely approach (loafing) to his day:
"...how he still works on an old typewriter and then calls up a woman who types a fresh copy and then goes out to the stationery store and then to the post office, talking and visiting with people as he goes along. His wife (Jill Krementz) tells him that he's being silly for not getting a computer — he could just type his story up and send it off and save himself a lot of trouble. No, he retorts: 'And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you any different'."
Words to live by, and afterward. Thank you Kurt, wherever you are.
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