Mother Night

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

The people she saw as succeeding in a brave new world were, after all, being rewarded as specialists in slavery, destruction, and death. I don’t consider people who work in those fields successful.

“What date is it?” I said. “November eleventh, sir,” he said. “November eleventh is Armistice Day, not Veterans’ Day,” I said. “Where you been?” he said. “They changed all that years ago.” “Veterans’ Day,” I said to Helga as we walked on. “Used to be Armistice Day. Now it’s Veterans’ Day.” “That upsets you?” she said. “Oh, it’s just so damn cheap, so damn typical,” I said. “This used to be a day in honor of the dead of World War One, but the living couldn’t keep their grubby hands off of it, wanted the glory of the dead for themselves. So typical, so typical. Any time anything of real dignity appears in this country, it’s torn to shreds and thrown to the mob.” “You hate America, don’t you?” she said. “That would be as silly as loving it,” I said. “It’s impossible for me to get emotional about it, because real estate doesn’t interest me. It’s no doubt a great flaw in my personality, but I can’t think in terms of boundaries. Those imaginary lines are as unreal to me as elves and pixies. I can’t believe that they mark the end or the beginning of anything of real concern to a human soul. Virtues and vices, pleasures and pains cross boundaries at will.” “You’ve changed so,” she said. “People should be changed by world wars,” I said, “else what are world wars for?”