by Kurt Vonnegut
Is a book by one man’s view of the human psyche. I am feeling quite lazy to tell you much about the book. I will however, in the spirit of good friendship share a few passages from the book that I liked.
Just a brief note. He manages to give each character enough space so that we do not have persons who do not contribute something to the story line. It is a short read, actually you can finish it in one sitting and you will thank me for it. Well thank archy for it.
Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, “It might have been.
There is a passage on what cult leaders many times get their followers to do, and sadly many do and do not live to tell the story.
To whom it may concern: These people around you are almost all of the survivors on San Lorenzo of the winds that followed the freezing of the sea. These people made a captive of the spurious holy man named Bokonon. They brought him here, placed him at their center, and commanded him to tell them exactly what God Almighty was up to and what they should now do. The mountebank told them that God was surely trying to kill them, possible because He was through with them, and that they should have the good manners to die. This, as you can see, they did.
There is this bit he writes about god creating man
In the beginning, God created the earth, and he looked upon it in His cosmic loneliness.
And God said, “Let Us make living creatures out of mud, so the mud can see what We have done.” And God created every living creature that now moveth, and one was man. Mud as man alone could speak. God leaned close as mud as man sat up, looked around, and spoke. Man blinked. “What is the _purpose_ of all this?” he asked politely.
“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.
“Certainly,” said man.
“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God.
And He went away. [emphasis mine]
I however like this the most, it is the last paragraph of the book and I think my friend nannus would agree.
If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would take from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues
of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who.