Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut

You were probably thinking, what happened to Vonnegut? He hasn’t read a Vonnegut in months. Oh no, did he already finish all the Vonneguts?![1]

Actually, there’s been a Vonnegut–Deadeye Dick–in my pile of library books since two library visits ago. I’ve been feeling guilty about reading always the same things so I’ve been intentionally avoiding him, and others. It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped liking him, I was just giving variety a chance. Also, I am nearing the end of his bibliography (for novels, at least), which is always a sad affair.

From being absolutely blown away by The Sirens of Titan to wondering what the hell crap I’m reading with Breakfast of Champions, from being mildly disappointed by Slaughterhouse Five to rolling in the brilliance of Galapagos like a pig discovering a mud hole on a warm afternoon, Vonnegut has climbed in my estimation to be one of my favourite authors.

The other day I said: You can’t be a bad person if you like–truly like–Vonnegut, and I believe it.

-Reading the Why

[1] That last is me: the pain of having read everything by your favourite authors is real.

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