Looking At Stop Signs For Hidden Meanings

I was the strange kid that liked to read. There are a few strange reading kids remaining, and I am proud to be one of the last survivors in this iPod generation. As the strange reading kid, I always had an Archie’s Comic or an Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader in my hand to accompany me throughout my journeys as a kid. Whether it be waiting at the dimly lit doctor’s office clutching a Sports Illustrated when the secretary called me up for my physical, long family drives through the desert skimming through Harry Potter, or even thumbing through Lord Of The Flies under the chattery dinner table, any type of reading material was always omnipresent for young me. The appearance of a paperback at my side always gave off an air about how intelligent I was, and/or felt. It made me happy. I was happy.
Archie’s Comics and Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader among others definitely were good appetizers for my interest in literature. They were witty, interesting and devoid of substance. I thoroughly enjoyed tales about Jughead’s exploits at the local hamburger shop and unique snapshots of ancient Egypt in Uncle John’s. However, something was sorely lacking.
Around the crisp age of fifteen, I began to grow bored of paperbacks, novels, comics, periodicals, magazines, religious pamphlets, stop signs and menus. It seemed as if I had read everything that words had to offer. There was nothing remotely interesting left. No intrigue. I even made up a dumb little philosophy that I repeated to my friends as if I were some kind of Confucious-esque prophet:
ALL WRITING IS INSIGNIFICANT. EVERYTHING HAS BEEN DONE. EVERY WORD HAS BEEN USED. IF YOU DIDN’T NOTICE THEY’RE ALL IN THE DICTIONAR, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS REARRANGE THEM. THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY LITERARY ELEMENTS TO REHASH. AND SO ON. AND SO FORTH. ETC. ETC.
I was jaded.
I was cynical.
I was fifteen.
Really I was more naïve than anything else. Because it was the year I turned fifteen that I discovered God in human form: Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. Fifteen was the year I read Breakfast of Champions, a book about a car dealer who can’t cope with life and finds solace in an obscure science fiction writer’s works. Pretty simplistic plot, right? Sounds kinda dumb, right? WRONG.
No book (except every other Vonnegut novel) had turned my idea of writing on its little, insignificant head so radically. Vonnegut uses illustrations in a serious novel (to hilarious effect, especially in Breakfast of Champions)! Vonnegut has page long chapters! Vonnegut creates complex, developed, real characters! Vonnegut’s plots intertwine realism, Dadaism, surrealism and satire!
I nearly wept.
Writing had never been quite so beautiful and meaningful to me. Never. Kurt Vonnegut spoke to me. As corny as that may sound, the man renewed my faith in the written word. I looked at menus and stop signs differently searching for hidden meanings. All thanks to Kurt V. I mean who could not appreciate writing that had such one-liners as these:

“Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.”- K.V.

“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”- K.V.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”- K.V.

Those lines still make me tremble inside. As a social critic, Vonnegut’s simplicity strikes a chord that resonates so deep it stings. I continued reading a steady diet of Kurt V. and vowed to read every word that he ever put on paper. Although, not everything he wrote was as top notch as his few masterpieces (Slaughterhouse Five, Welcome To The Monkey House, Breakfast of Champions, Mother Night, Cat’s Cradle and Sirens of Titan to name his most prestigious works), his other material was highly enjoyable, of course. In fact, I ended up reading approximately fifteen Vonnegut works. Thanks to that man, I have a new lease on reading and life. In the four-year span since I picked up my first Vonnegut novel, I have read plenty of other masterful books that have given me faith in words on paper. I never would have done that if it weren’t for Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
I may have been a reader when I was young. I may have stopped for a short period of time. Yet thanks to one Indianapolis native, I don’t plan on ever stopping again.
Epilogue: It wouldn’t be fair to finish this essay without mentioning Mr. Vonnegut’s recent passing. I was supremely shocked and believe that the world has lost the best writer of the past century. He was an icon, a hero, and proved above all that the pen is mightier than the sword. God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.
So it goes.