I remember reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Mother Night in 1964 or 65. A voracious reader open to all the possibilities of life, I was both shocked and gladdened by Vonnegut’s writing style and the depth his prose conveyed. I had already read Ibsen and Hemingway, but soon found that Vonnegut took literature to a higher level. Vonnegut was the master of leading his reader down a path, an always entertaining path, until the reader inevitably exclaimed "Oh shit!" as the master’s words coalesced from a dim premise into a sparkling nugget of golden truth.
Yes, Kurt Vonnegut was a thoughtful person that worried about the consequences of everyday actions. He also worried about what is real and what is perceived, and reading a Vonnegut novel is often like experiencing a waking dream. This week we lost a true master. He will be missed.