Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday, at the age of 84. There is some karmic irony in the fact that his death was related to a recent brain injury. Some would say his entire body of work demonstrates an injured brain. I would say that any injury previously suffered simply showed itself as the scarred, scathing wit of the damaged innocent, forever trying to make sense of a world he’d seen become so utterly senseless in a split second in Dresden all those years ago.
Rest in peace, Kurt.
“It is done.”