Cat's Cradle, p.1Kurt Vonnegut
AMERICA'S GREATEST SATIRIST
KURT VONNEGUT IS...
"UNIQUE ... one of the writers who map our landscapes for us, who give names to the places we know best."
--DORIS LESSING The New York Times Book Review
"OUR FINEST BLACK-HUMORIST .... We laugh in self-defense."
--The Atlantic Monthly
"AN UNIMITATIVE AND INIMITABLE SOCIAL SATIRIST."
"A CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION."
"A LAUGHING PROPHET OF DOOM."
--The New York Times
BOOKS BY KURT VONNEGUT
Breakfast of Champions
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
The Sirens of Titan
Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons
Welcome to the Monkey House
For Kenneth Littauer,
a man of gallantry and taste.
Nothing in this book is true.
"Live by the foma* that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy."
The Books of Bokonon. I: 5
* Harmless untruths
1 THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED
2 NICE, NICE, VERY NICE
4 A TENTATIVE TANGLING OF TENDRILS
5 LETTER FROM A PRE-MED
6 BUG FIGHTS
7 THE ILLUSTRIOUS HOENIKKERS
8 NEWT'S THING WITH ZINKA
9 VICE-PRESIDENT IN CHARGE OF VOLCANOES
10 SECRET AGENT X-9
12 END OF THE WORLD DELIGHT
13 THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE
14 WHEN AUTOMOBILES HAD CUT-GLASS VASES
15 MERRY CHRISTMAS
16 BACK TO KINDERGARTEN
17 THE GIRL POOL
18 THE MOST VALUABLE COMMODITY ON EARTH
19 NO MORE MUD
21 THE MARINES MARCH ON
22 MEMBER OF THE YELLOW PRESS
23 THE LAST BATCH OF BROWNIES
24 WHAT A WAMPETER IS
25 THE MAIN THING ABOUT DR. HOENIKKER
26 WHAT GOD IS
27 MEN FROM MARS
29 GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
30 ONLY SLEEPING
31 ANOTHER BREED
32 DYNAMITE MONEY
33 AN UNGRATEFUL MAN
35 HOBBY SHOP
37 A MODERN MAJOR GENERAL
38 BARRACUDA CAPITAL OF THE WORLD
39 FATA MORGANA
40 HOUSE OF HOPE AND MERCY
41 A KARASS BUILT FOR TWO
42 BICYCLES FOR AFGHANISTAN
43 THE DEMONSTRATOR
44 COMMUNIST SYMPATHIZERS
45 WHY AMERICANS ARE HATED
46 THE BOKONONIST METHOD FOR HANDLING CAESAR
47 DYNAMIC TENSION
48 JUST LIKE SAINT AUGUSTINE
49 A FISH PITCHED UP BY AN ANGRY SEA
50 A NICE MIDGET
51 O.K., MOM
52 NO PAIN
53 THE PRESIDENT OF FABRI-TEK
54 COMMUNISTS, NAZIS, ROYALISTS, PARACHUTISTS, AND DRAFT DODGERS
55 NEVER INDEX YOUR OWN BOOK
56 A SELF-SUPPORTING SQUIRREL CAGE
57 THE QUEASY DREAM
58 TYRANNY WITH A DIFFERENCE
59 FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS
60 AN UNDERPRIVILEGED NATION
61 WHAT A CORPORAL WAS WORTH
62 WHY HAZEL WASN'T SCARED
63 REVERENT AND FREE
64 PEACE AND PLENTY
65 A GOOD TIME TO COME TO SAN LORENZO
66 THE STRONGEST THING THERE IS
68 HOON-YERA MORA-TOORZ
69 A BIG MOSAIC
70 TUTORED BY BOKONON
71 THE HAPPINESS OF BEING AN AMERICAN
72 THE PISSANT HILTON
73 BLACK DEATH
74 CAT'S CRADLE
75 GIVE MY REGARDS TO ALBERT SCWEITZER
76 JULIAN CASTLE AGREES WITH NEWT THAT EVERYTHING IS MEANINGLESS
77 ASPIRIN AND BOKO-MARU
78 RING OF STEEL
79 WHY McCABE'S SOUL GREW COARSE
80 THE WATERFALL STRAINERS
81 A WHITE BRIDE FOR THE SON OF A PULLMAN PORTER
83 DR. SCHLICHTER VON KOENIGSWALD APPROACHES THE BREAK-EVEN POINT
85 A PACK OF FOMA
86 TWO LITTLE JUGS
87 THE CUT OF MY JIB
88 WHY FRANK COULDN'T BE PRESIDENT
90 ONLY ONE CATCH
92 ON THE POET'S CELEBRATION OF HIS FIRST BOKO-MARU
93 HOW I ALMOST LOST MY MONA
94 THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
95 I SEE THE HOOK
96 BELL, BOOK, AND CHICKEN IN A HATBOX
97 THE STINKING CHRISTIAN
98 LAST RITES
99 DYOT MEET MAT
100 DOWN THE OUBLIETTE GOES FRANK
101 LIKE MY PREDECESSORS, I OUTLAW BOKONON
102 ENEMIES OF FREEDOM
103 A MEDICAL OPINION ON THE EFFECTS OF A WRITERS' STRIKE
106 WHAT BOKONONISTS SAY WHEN THEY COMMIT SUICIDE
107 FEAST YOUR EYES!
108 FRANK TELLS US WHAT TO DO
109 FRANK DEFENDS HIMSELF
110 THE FOURTEENTH BOOK
111 TIME OUT
112 NEWT'S MOTHER'S RETICULE
114 WHEN I FELT THE BULLET ENTER MY HEART
115 AS IT HAPPENED
116 THE GRAND AH-WHOOM
118 THE IRON MAIDEN AND THE OUBLIETTE
119 MONA THANKS ME
120 TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
121 I AM SLOW TO ANSWER
122 THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON
123 OF MICE AND MEN
124 FRANK'S ANT FARM
125 THE TASMANIANS
126 SOFT PIPES, PLAY ON
127 THE END
THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED
CALL ME JONAH. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John.
Jonah--John--if I had been a Sam, I would have been a Jonah still--not because I have been unlucky for others, but because somebody or something has compelled me to be certain places at certain times, without fail. Conveyances and motives, both conventional and bizarre, have been provided. And, according to plan, at each appointed second, at each appointed place this Jonah was there.
When I was a younger man--two wives ago, 250,000 cigarettes ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago ...
When I was a much younger man, I began to collect material for a book to be called The Day the World Ended.
The book was to be factual.
The book was to be an account of what important Americans had done on the day when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Japan.
It was to be a Christian book. I was a Christian then.
I am a Bokononist now.
I would have been a Bokononist then, if there had been anyone to teach me the bittersweet lies of Bokonon. But Bokononism was unknown beyond the gravel beaches and coral knives that ring this little island in the Caribbean Sea, the Republic of San Lorenzo.
We Bokononists believe that humanity is organized into teams, teams that d
NICE, NICE, VERY NICE
"IF YOU FIND YOUR LIFE tangled up with somebody else's life for no very logical reasons," writes Bokonon, "that person may be a member of your karass."
At another point in The Books of Bokonon he tells us, "Man created the checkerboard; God created the karass." By that he means that a karass ignores national, institutional, occupational, familial, and class boundaries.
It is as free-form as an amoeba.
In his "Fifty-third Calypso," Bokonon invites us to sing along with him:
Oh, a sleeping drunkard
Up in Central Park,
And a lion-hunter
In the jungle dark,
And a Chinese dentist,
And a British queen--
All fit together
In the same machine.
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice--
So many different people
In the same device.
NOWHERE DOES BOKONON warn against a person's trying to discover the limits of his karass and the nature of the work God Almighty has had it do. Bokonon simply observes that such investigations are bound to be incomplete.
In the autobiographical section of The Books of Bokonon he writes a parable on the folly of pretending to discover, to understand:
I once knew an Episcopalian lady in Newport, Rhode Island, who asked me to design and build a doghouse for her Great Dane. The lady claimed to understand God and His Ways of Working perfectly. She could not understand why anyone should be puzzled about what had been or about what was going to be.
And yet, when I showed her a blueprint of the doghouse I proposed to build, she said to me, "I'm sorry, but I never could read one of those things."
"Give it to your husband or your minister to pass on to God," I said, "and, when God finds a minute, I'm sure he'll explain this doghouse of mine in a way that even you can understand."
She fired me. I shall never forget her. She believed that God liked people in sailboats much better than He liked people in motorboats. She could not bear to look at a worm. When she saw a worm, she screamed.
She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is Doing, [writes Bokonon].
A TENTATIVE TANGLING OF TENDRILS
BE THAT AS IT MAY, I intend in this book to include as many members of my karass as possible, and I mean to examine all strong hints as to what on Earth we, collectively, have been up to.
I do not intend that this book be a tract on behalf of Bokononism. I should like to offer a Bokononist warning about it, however. The first sentence in The Books of Bokonon is this:
"All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies."
My Bokononist warning is this:
Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either.
So be it.
About my karass, then.
It surely includes the three children of Dr. Felix Hoenikker, one of the so-called "Fathers" of the first atomic bomb. Dr. Hoenikker himself was no doubt a member of my karass, though he was dead before my sinookas, the tendrils of my life, began to tangle with those of his children.
The first of his heirs to be touched by my sinookas was Newton Hoenikker, the youngest of his three children, the younger of his two sons. I learned from the publication of my fraternity, The Delta Upsilon Quarterly, that Newton Hoenikker, son of the Nobel Prize physicist, Felix Hoenikker, had been pledged by my chapter, the Cornell Chapter.
So I wrote this letter to Newt:
"Dear Mr. Hoenikker:
"Or should I say, Dear Brother Hoenikker?
"I am a Cornell DU now making my living as a free-lance writer. I am gathering material for a book relating to the first atomic bomb. Its contents will be limited to events that took place on August 6, 1945, the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.
"Since your late father is generally recognized as having been one of the chief creators of the bomb, I would very much appreciate any anecdotes you might care to give me of life in your father's house on the day the bomb was dropped.
"I am sorry to say that I don't know as much about your illustrious family as I should, and so don't know whether you have brothers and sisters. If you do have brothers and sisters, I should like very much to have their addresses so that I can send similar requests to them.
"I realize that you were very young when the bomb was dropped, which is all to the good. My book is going to emphasize the human rather than the technical side of the bomb, so recollections of the day through the eyes of a 'baby,' if you'll pardon the expression, would fit in perfectly.
"You don't have to worry about style and form. Leave all that to me. Just give me the bare bones of your story.
"I will, of course, submit the final version to you for your approval prior to publication.
LETTER FROM A PRE-MED
TO WHICH NEWT REPLIED:
"I am sorry to be so long about answering your letter. That sounds like a very interesting book you are doing. I was so young when the bomb was dropped that I don't think I'm going to be much help. You should really ask my brother and sister, who are both older than I am. My sister is Mrs. Harrison C. Conners, 4918 North Meridian Street, Indianapolis, Indiana. That is my home address, too, now. I think she will be glad to help you. Nobody knows where my brother Frank is. He disappeared right after Father's funeral two years ago, and nobody has heard from him since. For all we know, he may be dead now.
"I was only six years old when they dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, so anything I remember about that day other people have helped me to remember.
"I remember I was playing on the living-room carpet outside my father's study door in Ilium, New York. The door was open, and I could see my father. He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. He was smoking a cigar. He was playing with a loop of string. Father was staying home from the laboratory in his pajamas all day that day. He stayed home whenever he wanted to.
"Father, as you probably know, spent practically his whole professional life working for the Research Laboratory of the General Forge and Foundry Company in Ilium. When the Manhattan Project came along, the bomb project, Father wouldn't leave Ilium to work on it. He said he wouldn't work on it at all unless they let him work where he wanted to work. A lot of the time that meant at home. The only place he liked to go, outside of Ilium, was our cottage on Cape Cod. Cape Cod was where he died. He died on a Christmas Eve. You probably know that, too.
"Anyway, I was playing on the carpet outside his study on the day of the bomb. My sister Angela tells me I used to play with little toy trucks for hours, making motor sounds, going 'burton, burton, burton' all the time. So I guess I was going 'burton, burton, burton' on the day of the bomb; and Father was in his study, playing with a loop of string.
"It so happens I know where the string he was playing with came from. Maybe you can use it somewhere in your book. Father took the string from around the manuscript of a novel that a man in prison had sent him. The novel was about the end of the world in the year 2000, and the name of the book was 2000 A.D. It told about how mad scientists made a terrific bomb that wiped out the whole world. There was a big sex orgy when everybody knew that the world was going to end, and then Jesus Christ Himself appeared ten seconds before the bomb went off. The name of the author was Marvin Sharpe Holderness, and he told Father in a covering letter that he was in prison for killing his own brother. He sent the manuscript to Father because he couldn't figure out what kind of explosives to put in the bomb. He t
"I don't mean to tell you I read the book when I was six. We had it around the house for years. My brother Frank made it his personal property, on account of the dirty parts. Frank kept it hidden in what he called his 'wall safe' in his bedroom. Actually, it wasn't a safe but just an old stove flue with a tin lid. Frank and I must have read the orgy part a thousand times when we were kids. We had it for years, and then my sister Angela found it. She read it and said it was nothing but a piece of dirty rotten filth. She burned it up, and the string with it. She was a mother to Frank and me, because our real mother died when I was born.
"My father never read the book, I'm pretty sure. I don't think he ever read a novel or even a short story in his whole life, or at least not since he was a little boy. He didn't read his mail or magazines or newspapers, either. I suppose he read a lot of technical journals, but to tell you the truth, I can't remember my father reading anything.
"As I say, all he wanted from that manuscript was the string. That was the way he was. Nobody could predict what he was going to be interested in next. On the day of the bomb it was string.
"Have you ever read the speech he made when he accepted the Nobel Prize? This is the whole speech: 'Ladies and Gentlemen. I stand before you now because I never stopped dawdling like an eight-year-old on a spring morning on his way to school. Anything can make me stop and look and wonder, and sometimes learn. I am a very happy man. Thank you.'
"Anyway, Father looked at that loop of string for a while, and then his fingers started playing with it. His fingers made the string figure called a 'cat's cradle.' I don't know where Father learned how to do that. From his father, maybe. His father was a tailor, you know, so there must have been thread and string around all the time when Father was a boy.
"Making that cat's cradle was the closest I ever saw my father come to playing what anybody else would call a game. He had no use at all for tricks and games and rules that other people made up. In a scrap-book my sister Angela used to keep up, there was a clipping from Time magazine where somebody asked Father what games he played for relaxation, and he said, 'Why should I bother with made-up games when there are so many real ones going on?'
"He must have surprised himself when he made a cat's cradle out of the string, and maybe it reminded him of his own childhood. He all of a sudden came out of his study and did something he'd never done before. He tried to play with me. Not only had he never played with me before; he had hardly ever even spoken to me.
"But he went down on his knees on the carpet next to me, and he showed me his teeth, and he waved that tangle of string in my face. 'See? See? See?' he asked. 'Cat's cradle. See the cat's cradle? See where the nice pussycat sleeps? Meow. Meow.'
Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut / History & Fiction / Science Fiction / Humor have rating 5.3 out of 5 / Based on32 votes