Anyway, Father looked at that loop of string for a while, and then this fingers started playing with it. His fingers made the string called a cat’s cradle


I wanted all things
To seem to make some sense,
So we all could be happy, yes,
Instead of tense.
And I made up lies
So that they all fit nice,
And made this sad world
A par-a-dise.


Maturity, Bokonon tells us, is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.


– I just can’t help thinking what a real shaking up it would give people if, all of a sudden, there were no new books, new plays, new histories, new poems…
– And how proud would you be when people started dying like flies? I demanded.
– They’d die more like mad dogs, I think – snarling and snapping at each other and biting their own tails.
I turned to Castle the elder:
– Sir, how does a man die when he’s deprived of the consolation of literature?
– In one of two ways, he said, petrescence of the heart or atrophy of the nervous system.
– Neither one very pleasant, I expect, I suggested.
– No, said Castle the elder. For the love of God, both of you, please keep writing!

Kurt Vonnegut – Cat’s Cradle

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