Kurt Vonnegut died late last in Manhattan. He was 84. He is one of my favorite writers and I know the world will miss him. He witnessed the firebombing of Dresden firsthand and based parts of his most famous work Slaughterhouse-Five on the experience. He wrote many books, but in my opinion, A Man Without A Country was one of his best. He ends the book with this fitting poem:

When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.

I'm sure Kurt is up in heaven now.

Labels: books, death