We are saddened to report the loss of author Kurt Vonnegut, who shuffled off this mortal coil late yesterday in Manhattan. He was 84. According to his wife Jill Krementz, Vonnegut suffered irreversible brain injuries after a fall several weeks ago. The sole image at his official website at this moment is of an empty cage, with the door wide open, its occupant at last free.

Everyone has a Vonnegut story, it seems, though many of them are urban legends: that he wrote "Wear Sunscreen," that he once attended a college lecture about his own work and argued with the professor about the meaning of his work (based off a movie plot). He was larger than life, an eternal pessimist who nevertheless loved humanity and exhorted people to be kind whenever possible. He lived through the fire-bombing of Dresden as a scared young POW, and -- much as Stephen King saw a friend killed by a train and swears he doesn't remember -- spent the rest of his life "not" writing about it. Vonnegut's works were censored, and so he supported civil liberties. He wrote fourteen novels and dozens of short stories; feel free to mention your own in the comments.

He is survived by his wife and seven children, as well as the rest of us.