I recently read A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut. Oh, ladies and gentlemen, that man is something wonderful and nuts. I love what he has to say about humor. He concludes by saying that perhaps he is too old, and not funny anymore.
This book is memoirish: the rantings of a man who more than admits that he's old: he takes certain liberties which he knows he can get away with, since he's 82. Note, he has always taken certain liberties, but he blames it on age now, his own joke. One may picture him a pensive window-looker, eccentric old man who smokes his cigar, knowing the evil of the world. But he'll offer you a cigar, too. You can watch the bomb go off together. All the good and the bad mixed together. What a man.
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