Bluebeard

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

If they haunt this place, they do it with such Episcopalian good manners that no one has so far noticed them.

“What’s the point of being alive,” she said, “if you’re not going to communicate?”

And if an artist wants to really jack up the prices of his creations, may I suggest this: suicide.

And Mrs. Berman said, “Most kids can’t afford to go to Harvard to be misinformed.”

I asked him as delicately as I could if making love to a woman so sophisticated in sexual techniques was in any way unusually burdensome. He replied, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, that I had certainly hit the nail on the head.

She smiled. “How do I look?” she said. She was overwhelmingly erotic—her voluptuous figure exaggerated and cocked this way and that way as she teetered on high-heeled, golden dancing shoes. Her skintight cocktail dress was cut low in front, shamelessly displaying her luscious orbs. What a sexual bully she could be!