“Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.”

It is 1:00 in the afternoon and I find myself crying over a man I never met, never really liked and never thought would die.

Back in highschool and college I read Vonnegut with a passion. The cynicism and satire tossed in with the profanity and science fiction helped me bask in, rather than resent, the alienation I felt. Vonnegut gave justification for the "otherness" I was going through; those emotions that almost all teenagers go through.

I could, and still can quote, passages from his books. "Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly, man got to tell himself 'Why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land, man got to tell himself he understand."

Words like Bokonism (a fictional religion that I claimed to have adopted for a time), foma, wampeters and grandfalloons entered my vocabulary. I chewed on ideas about religion, government, death and the environment, love and community. He made me want to write and read and think big, angry thoughts.

And I think that is why I stopped reading him. He never offered me hope. There were rants and challenges and easy escapes but never answers. He often recyled his own ideas. Fans might say this was because of their importance or value or universal appeal. I thought it was because he banked on nobody reading more than "Salughterhouse-Five" and maybe one more before getting bored, frustrated and/or suicidal.

I remember an English professor of mine, Stephen Swords, saying that Vonnegut was a lot like REM; at first you think "Wow, this is really profound!" And then you learn better.

And yet his writing was unique and thought-provoking and timely. At times he did offer a voice of conscience. His humor was dark but poignant. Understanding as much as a teenager could, he made me feel smart. He's one of those authors who made me want to teach English or write novels or change things.

And Vonnegut was friend to a lonely kid stuck in a farmhouse in Heyworth, a town the boy felt too small for his angst or his potential.

I'm sure our houseworker wonders why I'm crying. @ offered me his green blanket for comfort. I could blame it on the late nights or cultural adjustment but I think it is just the realization that one of the reasons I believe in God today is because of Kurt Vonnegut, jr. His bitterness forced me to choose what perspective on life I really wanted to carry with me - I had to hope that it wasn't as bad as he made it out to be and that it is getting better.