So it goes.

I was saddened by the recent passing of Kurt Vonnegut, who was a major literary hero to me during my high school and college years. I’ve been meaning to either read or re-read his work lately, and maybe now I actually will. But for the time being, I’ve been reading all of the appreciations of his life and work, many of which reference a certain passage from his masterful Slaughterhouse-Five, one that I hope someone will be cool enough to reference when delivering my funeral oration.

But this isn’t one of those- plenty have been written, most of which are better than I could have done. And that’s what really moves me about this, how personal these writers’ reflections on Vonnegut are. There is a great outpouring of sadness whenever a majorly respected or even beloved public figure dies, but the tenor of people’s reminiscences is different when it’s an artist. Writers in particular inspire very personal reflections, which makes sense- whereas many other art forms are best experiences communally, writing is a one-on-one relationship between text and reader. When you read a book that really hits home, it feels like the author is speaking directly to you.

Strangely, in light of Vonnegut’s passing, I couldn’t help but contrast it in my mind with Anna Nicole Smith’s death a few months back- strange because the reactions to their deaths were as different as their lives. Vonnegut’s passing has inspired a passionate wave of emotion from a relatively small segment of the population, and respectful shout-outs from the mainstream media. By contrast, Smith’s death was a media circus, with feeding frenzies springing up in the press over her autopsy and the paternity of her child.

These contrasts are illuminating. In a way, they kinda come down to the basic fact that he was an old writer who died, whereas she was fairly young, thus turning her death into a "tragedy." But it goes deeper than that. Writing is a solitary activity, and when writers become celebrities, it has as much to do with their extracurricular activities as it does with what they actually write. Smith, on the other hand, was a media creation through and through, a beneficiary of a popular culture that values visibility over accomplishment, and in which no celebrity is ever forgotten provided that she keeps the cameras close by. This was why the occasional gush-pieces that suggested that Elton John re-record "Candle in the Wind" in her memory were so misguided- she never had a legend in the first place, much less one that would endure after her candle burnt out. What, is the guy supposed to trot out the old warhorse every time a famous blonde dies before her time?

Thinking about these contrasts just throws into relief how the media is as much about telling stories as it is about reporting the facts. And rarely is this more apparent when a celebrity passes, since it gives journalists the ideal opportunity to pare down the lives of the famous into convenient plots- the humble beginnings, the rise to fame, the salad days, the fall from grace, and the tragic demise. When it all comes down to it, Smith’s life fit this mold perfectly.

But with all the ink has been spilled over her death, people just didn’t respond to it the way they did with Vonnegut’s. While Smith’s fame was largely predicated on what took for herself, whereas Vonnegut’s was predicated on what he gave to us. And that makes all the difference, really- Smith’s legacy was some naked pictures, a few lousy movies, a dopey reality show, and lots of disposable press clipping, all of which will no doubt be swallowed up by the media abyss. Whereas Vonnegut gave the world some of the greatest novels to be written during his lifetime, which will endure as long as people continue to read them.