Kurt Vonnegut, without a doubt more than any other author, profoundly influenced me as a teenager to think critically, cynically, and independently.
Long, long ago, in that dark and mysterious period known as high school, I was lucky enough, I guess, to have taken a one-quarter long English class on satire. On the first day, the teacher handed us the 1959 Vonnegut work, "The Sirens of Titan." We were supposed to read it over a period of some two or three weeks, you know, take a couple quizzes, just your typical high school reading assignment. Only, I devoured the book. We were supposed to read chapter 1, and instead I read the entire book the first night I had it (naturally, at the expense of my other homework.)
The next day, after class, I bombarded my unsuspecting teacher with a number of questions about the book's symbolism, and whether Vonnegut actually believed in his own made-up but startlingly appealing religion, the Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. A mysterious pro- (or is than an-? it's never black and white) tangonist materializes at regular intervals in different parts of the Solar System because he fell into a, [and I'm not going to lie, I had to go look this up] "chrono-synclastic infundibula," which is defined as "those places... where all the different kinds of truths fit together." He manages, when the time comes to materialize here or there, to totally hijack the entire life of an otherwise very lucky person, to orchestrate [in complete secrecy] the colonization of Mars, to turn the people of Mars against Earth, to beginning the War of the Worlds [much to Earth's shock], to having planned all along the total defeat of Mars, which gives him the opportunity to usher in a new religion on a horrified Earth, all while the poor lucky man remains to the end an unwitting but incredibly vital pawn. And then, the book announces it is driving towards nothing less than the reason why every living thing on Earth exists. And then... beautiful absurdity. Harmonious chaos.
I was addicted. I read Cat's Cradle next, a novel that begins by announcing it is a first-person account of the history of end of the world. I was fascinated by the concept of Bokononism, another fake religion that announces up front and without shame that it is nothing but lies, yet every member of the entire island of San Lorenzo is a blissfully happy devotee. Then Galapagos made me really try to wrap my head around the concept and workings of evolution, and to wonder where we, as a species, will evolve now that we've physically conquered the planet. Was the development and growth of human intelligence the best evolutionary advance in Earth's history - or, by far, the worst?
I could go on. But I'm not writing a book report. Vonnegut helped to spark in me a realization that it is crucial to watch out for and navigate the sheer absurdities of life that otherwise are the kinds of things that eventually drive people insane, as often his characters were. You never were sure at any one point if Vonnegut intended you to take him very seriously or not at all, and yet you know it's a very emphatic yes on both count. Questioning man's place in the universe, and attached importance, was an easy one for Vonnegut. In his novels, he showed time and time again that we are just a self-absorbed and, honestly, trivial species, when placed against the backdrop of the incomprehendable universe. But at the same time, his characters, very human and flawed, constantly find themselves sucked into events quite larger and beyond their control, events they do not understand or desire, but nonetheless they play their part exactly to a tee.
So Vonnegut forced me to ask myself: Do I matter or don't I? He prodded me to take the first steps down that ol' neverending introspective path; what, if anything, does it means to be a human being, alive now, at this one particualar moment, of all possible moments, in space and time?
I think the answer Vonnegut might have given is: "It means everything. And it means nothing. Of course."
Paradoxical as it sounds, the idea comforts me, as I continue to explore this bizarre experience of being alive. So again, I say, thank you, Mr. Vonnegut. Without the benefit of your unique perspective, it's entirely possible I could have long since been driven as stark raving mad as Dwayne Hoover at the end of Breakfast of Champions. You never were merely a science fiction writer or even a political satirist. You were an artist and philosopher who challenged the boundaries of thought, and helped me, and many others, to want to try and do the same.