Bluebeard

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

what we would all like to know about ourselves: where he is, what is going on, and what is likely to happen next.

asked her if she would write. I meant letters to me, but she thought I meant books. “That’s all I do—that and dancing,” she said. “As long as I keep that up, I keep grief away.”

“My soul didn’t know what kind of picture to paint, but my meat sure did.”

“Hold your hand in front of your eye,” she said, “and look at those strange and clever animals with love and gratitude, and tell them out loud: ‘Thank you, Meat.’