stardust memory

I love you sons of bitches. You’re all I read any more. You're the only ones who’ll talk all about the really terrific changes going on, the only ones crazy enough to know that life is a space voyage, and not a short one, either, but one that’ll last for billions of years. You’re the only ones with guts enough to really care about the future, who really notice what machines do to us, what wars do to us, what cities do to us, what big, simple ideas do to us, what tremendous misunderstanding, mistakes, accidents, catastrophes do to us. You're the only ones zany enough to agonize over time and distance without limit, over mysteries that will never die, over the fact that we are right now determining whether the space voyage for the next billion years or so is going to be Heaven or Hell.

Eliot Rosewater to a group of science fiction writers(!!) in Kurt Vonnegut's novel "God Bless You, Mr Rosewater" (1965)

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Kurt Vonnegut is dead. His dark comic talent and urgent moral vision caught our imaginations, made our conscience listen. As someone who has had the privilege to read Vonnegut, I tip my hat to the voice of America's counter-culture, a literary idol, and say adieu and of course, thankyou. Thankyou for your writing and your words and thankyou for the dog-eared copies of your novels tucked in the back pockets of my faded jeans at university.

RIP mr. vonnegut, you will be greatly missed.

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Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be. "Mother Night" (1961)

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a poem by Kurt Vonnegut

"Requiem"

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

vof the Grand Canyon,

“It is done.”

People did not like it here.