Hungry Joe was crazy, and no one knew it better than Yossarian, who did everything he could to help him. Hungry Joe just wouldn’t listen to Yossarian. Hungry Joe just wouldn’t listen because he thought Yossarian was crazy.
Since he had nothing better to do well in, he did well in school.
Because he needed a friend so desperately, he never found one.
You’re inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age?
Now, where were we? Read me back the last line.” “ ‘Read me back the last line,’ ” read back the corporal who could take shorthand.
Chaplain,” he continued, looking up, “we accuse you also of the commission of crimes and infractions we don’t even know about yet. Guilty or innocent?” “I don’t know, sir. How can I say if you don’t tell me what they are?” “How can we tell you if we don’t know?” “Guilty,” decided the colonel. “Sure he’s guilty,” agreed the major. “If they’re his crimes and infractions, he must have committed them.
There was no way of really knowing anything, he knew, not even that there was no way of really knowing anything.
Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly face with his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in Italy that same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and socks.
Colonel Cathcart had courage and never hesitated to volunteer his men for any target available.
The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable orange-red, pear-shaped, plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had forgotten it like an indestructible and incarnadine symbol of his own ineptitude.
That’s not what justice is,” the colonel jeered, and began pounding the table again with his big fat hand. “That’s what Karl Marx is. I’ll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what justice is when we’ve all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the hip. Get it?
Some Promised Land. The honey was there, but the milk we brought in with our goats. To people in California, God gives a magnificent coastline, a movie industry, and Beverly Hills. To us He gives sand. To Cannes He gives a plush film festival. We get the PLO. Our winters are rainy, our summers hot. To people who didn’t know how to wind a wristwatch He gives underground oceans of oil. To us He gives hernia, piles, and anti-Semitism.
You’ve got to have a God. Without God, you might turn to something really crazy, like witchcraft, or religion.
The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up directly in front of Yossarian and demanded, “How many fingers do you see?” “Two,” said Yossarian. “How many fingers do you see now?” asked the doctor, holding up two. “Two,” said Yossarian. “And how many now?” asked the doctor, holding up none. “Two,” said Yossarian. The doctor’s face wreathed with a smile. “By Jove, he’s right,” he declared jubilantly. “He does see everything twice.
He was pinched perspiringly in the epistemological dilemma of the skeptic, unable to accept solutions to problems he was unwilling to dismiss as unsolvable. He was never without misery, and never without hope.
Nobody would have anything to do with him. He began to drop things and to trip. He had a shy and hopeful manner in each new contact, and he was always disappointed. Because he NEEDED a friend so desperately, he never found one.
I don’t,” she sobbed, bursting violently into tears. “But the God I don’t believe in is a good God, a just God, a merciful God. He’s not the mean and stupid God you make Him out to be.
The years are too short, the days are too long.
I only raped her once,” he explained. Yossarian was aghast. “But you killed her, Aarfy! You killed her!” “Oh, I had to do that after I raped her,” Aarfy replied in his most condescending manner.
Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” Yossarian knew what he meant. “That’s not what I meant,” Doc Daneeka said as Yossarian began scratching his back.