So it goes.

I distinctly remember being a very little kid, somewhere back in the late 50's, experiencing an electric shock of genuine astonishment, as I finished reading a short story that was innocently nestled among others, in a schoolbook anthology.

I think it was the very first time I realized that a 'mere story' could produce a feeling that the entire world had just shifted, and would never be the same.

The story ('I remember it as if it was yesterday'' is the cliched phrase here) was 'Report on the Barnhouse Effect'.

Years later, when Kurt Vonnegut's amazing novels became popular, I consumed them with the eagerness that was reserved for only two authors - Vonnegut and Gore Vidal (imagine reading 'Messiah' as a 12 year old). At some point, I realized that Vonnegut was also the author of 'Barnhouse Effect', and that made the memory of that story's impact on me even more intense.

I loved all of those early books: Cat's Cradle, Rosewater, Mother Night, and those two towering works of genius: Sirens of Titan and Slaughterhouse Five. As his output continued over the years, I continued keeping up with each release, not always with the same fervor as the early novels, but Vonnegut's voice always delivered a perspective to which attention must be paid.

In the last few years, I have loved reading his short pieces in 'In These Times', especially reprints of his college commencement addresses. His final gem of a book, 'A Man Without a Country', should be read by everyone.

Vonnegut always made a big deal out of his smoking Pall Malls, and his outrage that they had 'not killed him yet'. This morning, I hear he is dead, from complications from a fall. How appropriately ironic.

Somewhere, back in the 70's, I was visiting my friend Dr. Ken in New York City. I can't remember how much we had been smoking and drinking, but it may have been considerable. At some point in the evening, we decided to go to Vonnegut's apartment and tell him that we appreciated his work and that we hoped he'd be happier in the future. He was listed in the Manhattan phone book, and we went to his door.

There, in the mail slot, was a piece of paper with his name (clearly ripped from a personal check). We knocked. Nobody home. We were relieved.

So it goes.