Cat's Cradle

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

I turned to Castle the elder. “Sir, how does a man die when he’s deprived of the consolations of literature?” “In one of two ways,” he said, “petrescence of the heart or atrophy of the nervous system.” “Neither one very pleasant, I expect,” I suggested.

“They were smart in a lot of ways, those Chinese were.” “Yes, let’s keep their memory alive.” “I wish now I’d studied them more.” “Well, it was hard to do, even under ideal conditions.” “I wish now I’d studied everything more.” “We’ve all got regrets, Mom.” “No use crying over spilt milk.” “As the poet said, Mom, ‘Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, “It might have been.” ’” “That’s so beautiful, and so true.”