به سن من که برسید، البته به شرطی که به سن من برسید، و به شرطی که تولید مثل کرده باشید، یک وقت میبینید دارید از بچههایتان، که آنها هم دیگر برای خودشان میان سال شده اند، میپرسید، "زندگی یعنی چه، برای چه؟
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.عامل و انگیزهی خیلی از خندهها ترس است. سالها پیش در تلویزیون برای تهیهی یک سریال کمدی کار میکردم. موقع تهیهی این سریال اصل را بر این گذاشتیم که در تک تک اپیزودهای آن مسئلهی مرگ به میان بیاید، و همین عنصر مرگ سبب میشود خندهی تماشاچی بیش از پیش بلند شود، آنهم در حالی که خود تماشاچی نمیفهمید چه ترفندی به کار زدهایم که اینطور از ته دل میخندد.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.پیشنهادهای غریب
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اما از کلیساهای درهم شکستهی استالین و چین معاصر بگویم: گمان بر این است که سرکوب این چنینی دین را کارل مارکس توجیه کرده است، آنهم با این جمله که "دین افیون تودههاست" این گفتهی مارکس متعلق به سال 1844 است، یعنی زمانی که افیون و مشتقات افیون تنها داروی مسکن و موثر زمان بود و در دسترس همگان. خود مارکس هم از افیون استفاده کرده بود. به خاطر تسکین و آرامش موقتی یی که افیون و مشتقات آن به او داده بود قدر شناس آن نیز بود. مارکس به سادگی متوجه این واقعیت شده بود که دین نیز میتواند برای کسانی که گرفتار مشقتهای اقتصادی یا اجتماعیاند آرامش بخش باشد، و بیتردید این پدیده را محکوم نمیکرد. گفتهی مارکس بیان سادهی یک حقیقت بدیهی بود و نه یک حکم.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.به نظر من قصه نویسانی که تکنولوژی را نادیده میگیرند، تصویر نادرستی از زندگی ارائه میدهند، و خطاکاری اینان درست مثل خطاکاری نویسندگان عصر ویکتوریان (قرن نوزدهم) است که با کنار گذاشتن جنسیت و سکس تصویری به غلط از زندگی عرضه میکردند.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So dot it.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.I think I am trying to clear my head of all the junk in there—the assholes, the flags, the underpants. Yes—there is a picture in this book of underpants. I'm throwing out characters from my other books, too. I'm not going to put on any more puppet shows.
I think I am trying to make my head as empty as it was when I was born onto this damaged planet fifty years ago.
I suspect that this is something most white Americans, and nonwhite Americans who imitate white Americans, should do. The things other people have put into my head, at any rate, do not fit together nicely, are often useless and ugly, are out of proportion with one another, are out of proportion with life as it really is outside my head. I have no culture, no humane harmony in my brains. I can't live without a culture anymore.
A black intern at the County Hospital now watched Mary Young die of pneumonia.
The intern did not know her. He had been in Midland City for only a week. He wasn't even a fellow-American, although he had taken his medical degree at Harvard. He was an Indaro. He was a Nigerian. His name was Cyprian Ukwende. He felt no kinship with Mary or with any American blacks. He felt kinship only with Indaros.
As she died, Mary was as alone on the planet as were Dwayne Hoover or Kilgore Trout. She had never reproduced. There were no friends or relatives to watch her die. So she spoke her very last words on the planet to Cyprian Ukwende. She did not have enough breath left to make her vocal chords buzz. She could only move her lips noiselessly.
Here is all she had to say about death: "Oh my, oh my.
So this book is a sidewalk strewn with junk, trash which I throw over my shoulders as I travel in time back to November eleventh, nineteen hundred and twenty-two.
I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, and when Dwayne Hoover was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon
millions of human beings stopped butchering one another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the Voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.
I was on a par with the Creator of the Universe there in the dark in the cocktail lounge. I shrunk the Universe to a ball exactly one light-year in diameter. I had it explode. I had it disperse itself again.
Ask me a question, any question. How old is the Universe? It is one half-second old, but that half-second has lasted one quintillion years so far. Who created it? Nobody created it. It has always been here.
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