I have but one question, Book-Loopers: Are we a granfalloon or are we a karass? I fear it is terribly obvious that we are the former. No matter. Down with Proust, up with Vonnegut, get your Beowfulf opening night tickets, WHAT!?!!? Busy, busy, busy.
"What do you think of it?" I asked him.
"It's black. What is it——hell?"
"It means whatever it means," said Newt.
"Then it's hell," snarled Castle.
"I was told a moment ago that it was a cat's cradle," I said.
"Inside information always helps," said Castle.
"I don't think it's very nice," Angela complained. "I think it's ugly, but I don't know anything about modern art. Sometimes I wish Newt would take some lessons, so he could know for sure if he was doing something or not."
"Self taught, are you?" Julian Castle asked Newt.
"Isn't everybody?" Newt answered.
"Very good answer." Castle was respectful.
I undertook to explain the deeper significance of the cat's cradle, since Newt seemed disinclined to go through that song and dance again.
And Castle nodded sagely. "So this is a picture of the meaninglessness of it all! I couldn't agree more."