Author: Yennaedo Balloo
I don’t really know where to begin with this. I suppose it’s a eulogy of sorts. However, growing up I only learned the form of an expository essay, not the prose, to honor a man whose greatness overshadows all you could ever hope for, yet still desire to equal. Maybe I’m the only one who cares, and if that’s the case then it’s a shame, but on Wednesday, April 11 Kurt Vonnegut died.
Why I care so much is simple. I found Vonnegut during that time in my life when I was that depressed, a completely introverted lost young teenager. Given the chance to meet that person, I doubt you’d know him as “Balloo.” During this time in my life I’d become disenfranchised with the Christianity with which I had been brought up and ultimately rejected, turning to other religions and creeds. Buddhism had caught my interest and imagination for a significant portion of my middle school career, but when I began spending weekends in Buddhist monasteries (which I affectionately refer to as “monkeries”) I saw, to my personal discomfort, that there was nothing being done. The Buddhists with whom I studied assured themselves that by sitting alone in rooms and hiding they were making the world a better place. I turned my back on the practice of the religion, but not entirely; I still wanted to be a part of this world.
There was some good to be found in the detachment they vouched for, but they could certainly not say it was the meaning of life to sit alone and believe you were affecting change. It was at this very moment that I found Vonnegut. Breakfast of Champions affirmed his stature as a writer, but I followed it with Sirens of Titan, which affirmed his greatness as a thinker and amazing philosopher. In the latter text, Vonnegut offers the best explanation for what the meaning of life is: “It took us that long to realize that the purpose of life, no matter who’s controlling it, is to love whoever’s around to be loved.” It was an incredible thought and it’s something I have held onto for years.
I’m a good volume away from having read Vonnegut’s complete works, but I’m probably more than halfway. Vonnegut’s writing reflects the era from which he was born, (the early 1920’s) the life he lived through, (Vonnegut served in WWII) and the country he loved dearly but was so deeply disappointed with. His writing demonstrates a mastery of our language that I could not deny, being a lover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s poetic prose, but the absurdity of his books, which ruined him in some critics’ eyes early in his career, made him all the more prophetic a writer for me. The proof is in the pudding, to any who read Slaughterhouse Five: Poo-tee-weet? It rings deeply for anyone who appreciated the book for all it was.
Vonnegut’s passing ruins the day for me in a way. I’ll never grow up to be the aspiring writer I’d dreamed of being as Vonnegut’s contemporary, if only by a bit. I know he was old, but the fact was, I never expected him to die before certain things were “wrapped up” for our country: this horrible war, this terrible administration, etc. I suppose even when the man dies, his spirit will persevere. Even now as I sit here writing this, the very scotch I’ve been drinking tastes bitter. I do not mean to say that Vonnegut’s death has ruined it for me, I’m still enjoying my Johnnie Walker. I mean that it has reminded me to face the world, accepting the crap and reality of it for the sake of understanding it. After all: where’s the cat? Where’s the cradle?
Vonnegut understood because he immersed himself in it. His writing spoke of that depth and in his memory I’ll be doing my best, not just as a writer, but as a human being and citizen, to immerse myself in this world.
Yennaedo is a sophomore ECLS major and Opinions Co-Editor for the Weekly. He can be reached at yballoo@oxy.edu
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