God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut
TS Eliot once said that April was the cruelest month. I very nearly worshiped this man during my adolescence (speaking of which, is it bizarre to fancy yourself the reincarnated wife of an obtuse poet who died 15 years before you were born? At least my ego wasn't so big as to fancy myself a reincarnation of the man himself.) But, I digress... While I continue to this day to read his words with bated breath and a look of glee, it used to be that I had to disagree with him on this issue. April the cruelest month? No, my friend, I have to say March is the cruelest. First it was out of the naive beliefs of a teenager, who feels that winter refusing to release its bony hold is the only thing that can make a month cruel. Then that inescapable quality of life on this planet, tragedy, caught my heel, making a comparatively small, yet still indelible, mark, and I had todisagree even more strongly.
Now, though, as I sit in sleepy Indianapolis, in the midst of a winter that still refuses to let go, even at this late date in April, I have to start at least partially agreeing with Mr. Eliot. Not so much because of the weather, though it certainly has done its part to make April cruel, but thanks to the passing of that other literary god of mine, Kurt Vonnegut.
As I drove through the lovely, though flat and looooong, state of Pennsylvania on my way out here to Indiana, the sun was shining a brilliant silvery-white. I'd never seen it such a color. Then sun's usually golden yellow, right? But here it was, a brilliant white light, like the moon was out, hundreds of times brighter, during the daytime. I had no idea if it had anything to do with the lack of pollution, or with the coldness and dryness of the atmosphere, but as it shined through patchy cumulous clouds, I swore I'd never seen a diamond more brilliant than the sun then and there. I kept staring at it and blinding myself, probably not the best thing to do during hour 10 of this 11-hour driving day, but I couldn't help it. Nor could I help thinking that, if this is what the sun is like out here, maybe the midwest isn't all that bad after all. I started thinking about the pros of moving out to Indianapolis. The greatest pro, by far, was that it was truly the land of Vonnegut. The restaurant behind our apartment was designed by Mr. Vonnegut's grandfather, and his family comes in often for lunch. In fact, when Karel told me about he bust of Vonnegut that sits in one of the rooms, I became ok with my decision to move out to the midwest. Not only that, but this happens to be the Year of Vonnegut: the city has chosen this year to celebrate Vonnegut's lie, and he was meant to speak on the 27th of April, reading out of Slaughterhouse Five, recently chosen as Indy's book of the year. For this girl who's harbored dreams of being a writer since she was a little girl, this was a sign if there ever was one.
And isn't it fitting, then, for those familiar with the surly curmudgeon, that Vonneut, who'd been anticipating his death for over a decade now, would end up kicking the bucket right in the middle of all these festivites in his honor, 2 weeks before he was meant to speak and I wasmeant to fulfill my intense wish of seeing him speak (after having missed the opportunity during my freshman year of college.) Now there's comedic timing for you.
So it goes.
Well, Mr. Vonnegut, you stirred the heartstrings of this here girl, beginning at a very tender age. Most recently, I found a sort of solace in Billy Pilgrim's story during my travels. Thanks for that, and hope the afterlife finds you happier than you were here on this Earth. I cheers to you, sir. Que descanse en paz.
Labels: Vonnegut Indiana Indianapolis
posted by La Rizz @ 10:54 AM
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