Renowned author Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., died yesterday at the age of 84, and I find myself rather puzzled by the depth of my reaction to the news. I feel truly, deeply bummed about this, which would make sense if Vonnegut had been one of my heroes. But the truth is, the only work of his I’ve ever read is a single short story back in high school, the same short story that everyone else reads in high school, “Harrison Bergeron.” I’ve always meant to read some Vonnegut, or at least his best-known novel Slaughterhouse-Five, but I just haven’t gotten around to it.

I was, however, familiar with Vonnegut’s reputation as an iconoclast and anti-authoritarian, and with his rumpled, world-weary face. I saw him interviewed on television a number of times and always enjoyed his wry comments on the stupidity that permeates modern society.

I think perhaps what I’m feeling today is not the loss of Kurt Vonnegut the author, but of Kurt Vonnegut the personality. He was one of a dwindling breed, I think, the well-respected man of letters who could be called upon to comment about, well, just about everything. We still have plenty of novelists, we even have some celebrity novelists, but we’ve got precious few novelists who project that air of informed gravitas, the ones who can be counted upon to have something interesting and relevant to say when they show up on Nightline.

Any fellow writers who may be reading this may be interested in Vonnegut’s advice on writing, posted earlier by Chris Roberson.