Every passing hour brings the Solar System forty three thousand miles closer to Globular Cluster M13 in Hercules — and still there are some misfits who insist that there is no such thing as progress.

Vonnegut could not help looking back, despite the danger of being turned metaphorically into a pillar of salt, into am emblem of the death that comes to those who cannot let go of the past

There is a riddle about a man who is locked in a room with nothing but a bed and a calendar, and the question is: How does he survive? The answer is: He eats dates from the calendar and drinks from the springs of the bed.

Has any psychological experiment yielded a more delightful suggestion than this one: that there is a part of the mind without ambition or information, which nonetheless is expert on what is beautiful?

One of the few good things about modern times: If you die horribly on television, you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us.

The most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not.

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?