@fabrisgassmoney: Make your soul grow In 2006, Kurt Vonnegut wrote to five teenagers he'd never met. He was 84 and living on East 48th Street in Manhattan. He had stopped making public appearances. Slaughterhouse-Five was thirty-seven years behind him, and A Man Without a Country, published the year before, had been an old man's furious little book about a country he thought was finished. At Xavier High School in New York, an English teacher named Ms. Lockwood set her class a persuasive-writing assignment. Pick a famous author. Write to them. Convince them to visit the school. Five of her students picked Vonnegut. None of the authors came. Vonnegut was the only one who wrote back. The letter arrived typed, signed with the asterisk self-portrait he had been drawing for decades. He apologised for not visiting on the grounds that he now resembled an iguana. Then he told them the only thing he had to say, which he said would not take long. Make art. Any of it. Sing, dance, draw, write, act, badly if necessary. Not for money, not for fame. Do it to find out what is inside you. Then he gave them homework. Write a six-line rhyming poem tonight. Make it as good as you possibly can. Tell nobody. Show nobody. Not your parents, not your girlfriend, not Ms. Lockwood. Then tear it into tiny pieces and put the pieces in different bins. He wanted them to understand that the reward was not the poem, and never had been. Nobody has to see it for it to have counted. You made something, and the making changed you, and that is the whole of it. Five months later, in April 2007, Vonnegut fell at his home and struck his head. He died a few weeks after. He was 84. The last piece of advice he gave to a room full of strangers' children was to make something beautiful and throw it away. Somebody kept the letter. Send this to someone who needs it.

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Thursday 22 October 2026 01:08:19 GMT