Thursday, April 12, 2007


He was sitting on a rock. He was barefoot. His feet were frosty with ice-nine. His only garment was a white bedspread with blue tufts. The tufts said Casa Mona. He took no note of our arrival. In one hand was a pencil. In the other was paper.



"May I ask what you're thinking?"

"I am thinking, young man, about the final sentence for The Books of Bokonon. The time for the final sentence has come."

"Any luck?"

He shrugged and handed me a piece of paper. This is what I read:

If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity, and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would take from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who.
R.I.P., Kurt Vonnegut.


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