Jailbird

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

I have loved only four women in my life—my mother, my late wife, a woman to whom I was once affianced, and one other. I will describe them all by and by. Let it be said now, though, that all four seemed more virtuous, braver about life, and closer to the secrets of the universe than I could ever be.

He had so opened himself to the consolations of religion that he had become an imbecile.

I myself was baptized a Roman Catholic, but aspired to my father’s indifference, and quit going to church when I was twelve.

It is a hard daydream to let go of—that one has friends.

How would I ever have got through life without women to act as my interpreters?

No American is so old and poor and friendless that he cannot make a collection of some of the most exquisite little ironies in town.

All happiness is religious, I have to think sometimes.

What a beautiful boy he was. He had big brown eyes. His hair was a crown of black ringlets. I would have given a lot for a son like that. Then again, my own son, imagine, would have given a lot for a father like Arpad Leen. Fair is fair.

“You couldn’t help it that you were born without a heart. At least you tried to believe what the people with hearts believed—so you were a good man just the same.”

So I went to the morgue after lunch, and I claimed her. It was easily done. Who else would want that tiny body? It had no relatives. I was its only friend. I had one last look at it. It was nothing. There was nobody there anymore. “Nobody home.”