I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.
Trout, incidentally, had written a book about a money tree. It had twenty-dollar bills for leaves. Its flowers were government bonds. Its fruit was diamonds. It attracted human beings who killed each other around the roots and made very good fertilizer.
All these years, I've been opening the window and making love to the world.
One might be led to suspect that there were all sorts of things going on in the Universe which he or she did not thoroughly understand.
Farewell, hello, farewell, hello.
The river was the Hudson. There were carp in there and we saw them. They were as big as atomic submarines. We saw waterfalls, too, streams jumping off cliffs into the valley of the Delaware.
If I wrote something that hadn't really happened, and I tried to sell it, I could go to jail. That's fraud!
Trout's leading robot looked like a human being, and could talk and dance and so on, and go out with girls. And nobody held it against him that he dropped jellied gasoline on people. But they found his halitosis unforgivable. But then he cleared that up, and he was welcomed to the human race.
All this happened, more or less.
People aren't supposed to look back.
Get out of the road, you dumb motherfucker!
The umpire had comical news. The congregation had been theoretically spotted from the air by a theoretical enemy. They were all theoretically dead now. The theoretical corpses laughed and ate a hearty noontime meal.
It is just an illusion here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone, it is gone forever.
We went to the New York World's Fair, saw what the past had been like, according to the Ford Motor Car Company and Walt Disney, saw what the future would be like, according to General Motors. And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.
Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue, the monograph went on. Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact how hard money is to come by, and, there, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves.
People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to always tell the difference.
There are almost no characters in this story, and almost no dramatic confrontations, because most of the people in it are so sick and so much the listless playthings of enormous forces. One of the main effects of war, after all, is that people are discouraged from being characters.
It is so short and jumbled and jangled because there is nothing intelligent to say after a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead...everything is supposed to be very quiet...and it always is, except for the birds.
What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at once.There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. When seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep.
Avoiding Germans, they were delivering themselves into rural silences ever more profound. They ate snow.
People would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers.
He ate a pear. It was a hard one. It fought back against his grinding teeth. It snapped in juicy protest.
There in the hospital Billy was having an adventure very common among people without power in times of war: he was trying to prove to a willfully deaf and blind enemy that he is interesting to hear and see.
It was very exciting for her, taking his dignity away in the name of love.
When food came in, the human beings were quiet and trusting and beautiful. They shared.
Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected. So it goes.
Somewhere in the night there were cries of grief. With nothing better to do, Billy shuffled in their direction. He wondered what ragedy so many had found to lament out of doors.
He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.
There is one other book,. that can teach you everything you need to know about life...it's The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, but that's not enough anymore.
More Kurt Vonnegut Quotations (Based on Topics)
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More Kurt Vonnegut Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Breakfast of Champions
- Cat's Cradle
- Mother Night
- The Sirens of Titan
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