Bluebeard

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Why should a real man stay home when he could be raping a virgin continent?

At her burial at noon in Green River Cemetery, in a grave only a few yards from those of the other two Musketeers, Jackson Pollock and Terry Kitchen, I had my strongest vision yet of human souls unencumbered, unembarrassed by their unruly meat. There was this rectangular hole in the ground, and standing around it were all these pure and innocent neon tubes. Was I crazy? You bet.

The cyclops was in a high state of agitation.

“The healthy women are in the cellar with the beets and potatoes and turnips,” I said. “They are putting off being raped as long as possible, but they have heard the history of other wars in the area, so they know that rape will surely come.”

“They stole the nails from the Roman soldiers who were about to crucify Jesus,” she said. “When the soldiers looked for the nails, they had disappeared mysteriously. Gypsies had stolen them, and Jesus and the crowd had to wait until the soldiers sent for new nails. After that, God Almighty gave permission to all Gypsies to steal all they could.”

and she lay down there and died.

worthless? I’m here to tell you this is a terribly important painting someway.” “I think maybe it’s terribly important the same way a head-on collision is important,” I said. “There’s undeniable impact. Something has sure as hell happened.”

“I can’t believe I did it myself,” I said. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was done by potato bugs.”

“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.’ ”