We've got an assload of books in our house. My parents have, in fact, vowed that they would never help us move again after my father spent three hours trapped at the bottom of a book-alanche the last time.
But I managed, yesterday, to locate in this forest of former trees my copies of Cat's Cradle, Deadeye Dick and Slaughterhouse-Five. I don't believe I've re-read any of them in at least eight years.
I read all the Vonnegut I could get my hands on when I was in my early twenties. Now seems like a good time to take another look.
