Still reading The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut’s classic from 1959, this week. We’ve just gotten to the point of meeting the members of a new religion whose members handicap themselves by carrying heavy weights, dressing in ugly clothes, wearing bad makeup, etc. Shades of “Harrison Bergeron“! And by “shades” I do not mean “dark glasses worn to impair your eyesight and eliminate any advantage you may enjoy due to your superior vision.”
The dark young man’s wife, who had reason to be vain about her Phi Beta Kappa key, had handicapped herself with a husband who read nothing but comic books.
Hey, what’s wrong with comic books? Well, you know, other than the fact that things like Maus, “The Dark Phoenix Saga“, and Watchmen were still 20-30 years in the future when Sirens of Titan was written …
Meanwhile, editing on the first rewritten draft of The War of the Ravels continues!
The treacly, gathered mist exploded outward in a disk, crumbled to scuds of foam, evaporated into the night; the foggy shroud that had draped the cliff behind the death-wind sighed into the harbor, breaking noiselessly over the ships before being absorbed back into the sea. The dead fell where they stood or crawled or kneeled, and did not move again.
It’s almost always better for the living when the dead stop moving, isn’t it?