In [the article] we learn that a new biography of Kurt Vonnegut ‘undermines his warm, grandfatherly image’:

‘A new biography of acclaimed American author Kurt Vonnegut, beloved by fans worldwide for his work’s warm humour and homespun Midwestern wisdom, has shocked many with a portrayal of a bitter, angry man prone to depression and fits of temper.

The book on Vonnegut, who died in 2007, lifts the lid on the writer’s private life, revealing a man far removed from the grandfather-like public figure his millions of devotees adored.’

I read this and thought, I’m going mad. Who on Earth could read a Vonnegut book and think that he was a grandfatherly bundle of warm fuzzy happiness? I mean, I read Vonnegut first as a ten year old, and it was shocking because he could joke in the face of such blackness and bleakness, and I’d never seen an author do that before. Everything was pointless, except, possibly, a few moments of love snatched from the darkness, a few moments in which we connect, or fail to.