I missed the 50th anniversary of one of the central books of my life. Slaughterhouse Five was published in 1969, just before I was born. I didn't find it until I was 16 years old. It was the time before I knew about Kurt Vonnegut and so was the rest of my life. Today I can track much of my personal philosophy, cynicism and religion to Vonnegut and Slaughterhouse Five. For better and worse.
If you haven't read it recently (or ever), join me in a revist this month.
And then it goes …