Many writers inspire admiration; far fewer inspire love. Kurt Vonnegut, who was born 100 years ago this month, was one of those few.
Read the critical commentary on his output of 14 novels, clutches of essays, oodles of short stories and plays, and there is the expected praise for his style and approach. “A beautifully fastidious writer, utterly original,” said the hard-to-please James Wood. “Vonnegut looked the world straight in the eye and never flinched,” wrote J.G. Ballard, who should know.
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