As a writer, he cornered the market in time-travelling aliens from Tralfamadore. My notes on his novel Timequake (1997) conclude "...the work of a master craftsman." But in retrospect that seems an overestimation, with his contemporary Kilgore Trout latterly eclipsing him. He was never as cozily genre as Asimov nor as influential as Philip K. Dick, so it's unsurprising that his highly accessible and morbidly funny literature was rather wasted on the human race - although appreciated somewhat more by Tralfmadorians.
Of course, he is now utterly indifferent to such matters, having suffered a fatal fall. So it goes. But should he turn out to have been wrong about God, and now be supping at a clam-bake just beyond the pearly gates, then here's to you: Kurt Vonnegut, Junior.
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