I have a deep love for Vonnegut's work, and consume it like day-old pizza: while I still haven't read a couple of his novels (Timequake and Galapagos are the la

I have a deep love for Vonnegut's work, and consume it like day-old pizza: while I still haven't read a couple of his novels (Timequake and Galapagos are the last two, I believe), he's one of the few authors whose writing I cannot stay away from for too long. Now that I am (relatively) older and the immediate luster of Slaughterhouse Five has worn off in the opinion of my peers, I think I have a better idea of what I love about him so much beyond his wit and style and candor -- it's the conflict between his relentless hope for the universe and the brutal cynicism he developed during his time spent in it. (I'm fortunate enough to have never been in a war, but I can imagine that witnessing the horrors of Dresden pretty much eradicates any aggregate good-will you might have towards the ultimate fate of humanity.) My favorite portion of his writing is in an essay that's referred to as Vonnegut's Blues for America (apparently adapted from a graduation speech he gave to Eastern Washington University in 2004, three years before his passing). The entire thing is [here](http://www.rense.com/general69/vonnegutsblues.htm http://www.rense.com/general69/vonnegutsblues.htm) -- and mired with the political venom that laces most of his later stuff, but the part I love: No matter how corrupt, greedy, and heartless our government, our corporations, our media, and our religious and charitable institutions may become, the music will still be wonderful. If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph: THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC ... It makes practically everybody fonder of life than he or she would be without it. Even military bands, although I am a pacifist, always cheer me up. And I really like Strauss and Mozart and all that, but the priceless gift that African Americans gave the whole world when they were still in slavery was a gift so great that it is now almost the only reason many foreigners still like us at least a little bit. That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift called the blues. All pop music today ­ jazz, swing, be-bop, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Stones, rock-and-roll, hip-hop, and on and on ­ is derived from the blues. A gift to the world? One of the best rhythm-and-blues combos I ever heard was three guys and a girl from Finland playing in a club in Krakow, Poland. The wonderful writer Albert Murray, who is a jazz historian and a friend of mine among other things, told me that during the era of slavery in this country ­-- an atrocity from which we can never fully recover --­ the suicide rate per capita among slave owners was much higher than the suicide rate among slaves. Murray says he thinks this was because slaves had a way of dealing with depression, which their white owners did not: They could shoo away Old Man Suicide by playing and singing the Blues. He says something else which also sounds right to me. He says the blues can't drive depression clear out of a house, but can drive it into the corners of any room where it's being played. So please remember that.