Deadeye Dick

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

That is my principal objection to life, I think: It is too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes.

This was clearly one of the most memorable events of her whole life, and I had never heard of it before. If she had died in childhood, she would have remembered life as the place you went, in case you wanted to see bugs eat a grand piano.

So there we had it—the ever-growing ball of American paranoia, the ball of string a hundred miles in diameter, with the unsolved assassination of John F. Kennedy at its core.