Kurt Vonnegut

I’m grateful for things that work. Not many things do work, you know.

Truth was the enemy of the people, because the truth was so terrible, so Bokonon made it his business to provide the people with better and better lies.

Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?”

And to demonstrate my mastery over my illusory fate, I turned the radio off.

“Maturity, the way I understand it,” he told me, “is knowing what your limitations are.”

Science is magic that works.

I am a very bad scientist. I will do anything to make a human being feel better, even if it’s unscientific.

And I realized with chagrin that my agreeing to be boss had freed Frank to do what he wanted to do more than anything else, to do what his father had done: to receive honors and creature comforts while escaping human responsibilities. He was accomplishing this by going down a spiritual oubliette.

When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed.

“Write it all down,” Bokonon tells us. He is really telling us, of course, how futile it is to write or read histories. “Without accurate records of the past, how can men and women be expected to avoid making serious mistakes in the future?” he asks ironically.