Posts Tagged: Kurt Vonnegut

No Time To Be Neurotic

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The Believer has just published what is likely writer Peter Matthiessen’s last interview, conducted only a month before his death. Included: Jaws, the sticker that Kurt Vonnegut left on Matthiessen’s car, and why Matthiessen didn’t like to write about New York:

I also very rarely write about cities or urban people—especially urban people of our own region.

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Kurt Vonnegut’s Crazy Amazing TV Show

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A seemingly unemployed wannabe poet, Stony secures the opportunity by winning the “Blast-Off Space Food” jingle contest and, despite confused protest from his mother,  is whisked away to undergo an intensive, three-month astronautic crash course.

Would you believe us if we told you the above quote describes the premise of a ’60s TV show that stitched together aspects of Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s CradleSirens of Titan, and “Harrison Bergeron”?

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Kurt Vonnegut Loved Adobe Books, And You Should Too

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Here’s a lovely addition to the ongoing up-again-down-again saga of Adobe Books: Herbert Gold describes Kurt Vonnegut’s last trip to San Francisco, during which the two visited the “eternal no-rent bookshop.”

Vonnegut ended up signing a $1.95 used copy of Slaughterhouse Five, which the store’s owners were able to sell “to a collector for enough to cover the threat of eviction for a month or two.”

The trip also included burritos, which is the obvious food choice in the Mission, of course, but the image of Kurt Vonnegut snarfing a burrito under that “bristle of mustache” is somehow surprising and delightful.

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Veterans Weekend Rumpus Roundup

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If you spent the weekend honoring the veterans in your life or otherwise celebrating Veterans Day, you may have missed these excellent Rumpus pieces. Don’t worry, it’s not too late to read them!

On what would have been his 90th birthday, we spoke with Kurt Vonnegut’s daughter Nanette about her father’s writing, family life, and PTSD.

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Jake Cline: The Last Book I Loved, Mother Night

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If he had not been such a pacifist, Kurt Vonnegut would have made a hell of a boxer.

I say this knowing full well that Vonnegut was not an impressive physical specimen. His posture was miserable, his countenance was haggard and his lungs were lacquered with so much tar from smoking unfiltered Pall Malls you’d have thought he’d spent his life paving interstate highways.

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