Kurt Vonnegut passed away last night. This was the news being broadcasted on NPR when the radio alarm waked me at 7:30 AM. I knew Vonnegut, but I thought he was dead long time ago. I did not realize he was a living icon until he now is surely dead.
To be precise, I don't know Vonnegut himself, but his masterpiece, Slaughterhouse-Five. To be more precise, I forget about the content of the novel, but keep all memories associated with it. They happened in that hot and humid summer in 1992; they happened when I liked one girl very much. In 1992, during the summer, I stayed at school and took Japanese 101 in the neighboring QingHua U. since that girl also took the class. To see her is my only motivation to take the course. I thought that I may have a chance to chat with her after the class on the way back to Chiao-Tung U.
Days in and days out. My Japanese and other things (I took other classes, too) improved a lot except my relationship with her. She was still like a dove which always kept a safe distance from me, and I was just too shy to say anything beyond "Hello. It is so hot today." A dumb conversation easily choked a budding love affair. I was troubled by this situation very much, but just did not know how to fix it.
To attend Japanese 101, I had to pass by a big white building in Qing-Hua U., and I was very curious about that building. One day, in order to expel my sorrow, I decided to visit it. It was the main library. Comparing to the one in Chiao-Tung, this library contains much more novels--the fine, contemporary but classical ones. Slaughterhouse-Five is among them. For the rest of the vacation, I constantly visited the library during weekends. I picked up a looking-good novel, took a table close to the window, dived into the novel and forgot about the girl.
I now can't fully recall what Slaughterhouse-Five is about, but all memories associated with the book in that hot summer in 1992 come back to me as vivid as they just happened yesterday.
