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Insanity is contagious.
But they couldn’t touch him, he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn’t touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247.
Now, men, don’t misunderstand me. This is all voluntary, of course. I’d be the last colonel in the world to order you to go to that U.S.O. show and have a good time, but I want every one of you who isn’t sick enough to be in a hospital to go to that U.S.O. show right now and have a good time, and that’s an order!”
Catch1
He felt imprisoned in an airplane. In an airplane there was absolutely no place in the world to go except to another part of the airplane.
“What difference does it make to anyone if I’m in the plane or not?” “No difference.” “Sure, that’s what I mean,” Doc Daneeka said. “A little grease is what makes this world go round. One hand washes the other. 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. “I’m talking about co-operation. Favors. You do a favor for me, I’ll do one for you. Get it?” “Do one for me,” Yossarian requested. “Not a chance,” Doc Daneeka answered.
“Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?” The question upset them, because Snowden had been killed over Avignon when Dobbs went crazy in mid-air and seized the controls away from Huple. The corporal played it dumb. “What?” he asked. “Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?” “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “Où sont les Neigedens d’antan?” Yossarian said to make it easier for him. “Parlez en anglais, for Christ’s sake,” said the corporal. “Je ne parle pas français.”
Under Colonel Korn’s rule, the only people permitted to ask questions were those who never did. Soon the only people attending were those who never asked questions, and the sessions were discontinued altogether, since Clevinger, the corporal and Colonel Korn agreed that it was neither possible nor necessary to educate people who never questioned anything.
Catch2
“Old.” “I’m not old.” “You’re inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age? A half minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an unhooked brassiere was as close as you ever hoped to get to Paradise. Only a fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summer vacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip! They go rocketing by so fast. How the hell else are you ever going to slow time down?”
“Maybe a long life does have to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it’s to seem long. But in that event, who wants one?” “I do,” Dunbar told him. “Why?” Clevinger asked. “What else is there?”
Yossarian, who decided right then and there to go crazy. “You’re wasting your time,” Doc Daneeka was forced to tell him. “Can’t you ground someone who’s crazy?” “Oh, sure. I have to. There’s a rule saying I have to ground anyone who’s crazy.” “Then why don’t you ground me? I’m crazy. Ask Clevinger.” “Clevinger? Where is Clevinger? You find Clevinger and I’ll ask him.” “Then ask any of the others. They’ll tell you how crazy I am.” “They’re crazy.” “Then why don’t you ground them?” “Why don’t they ask me to ground them?” “Because they’re crazy, that’s why.” “Of course they’re crazy,” Doc Daneeka
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Catch3
Yossarian saw it clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision about its perfect pairs of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn’t quite sure that he saw it at all, just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art
“Oh, they’re there, all right,” Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after Yossarian’s fist fight with Appleby in the officers’ club, “although he probably doesn’t even know it. That’s why he can’t see things as they really are.” “How come he doesn’t know it?” inquired Yossarian. “Because he’s got flies in his eyes,” Orr explained with exaggerated patience. “How can he see he’s got flies in his eyes if he’s got flies in his eyes?”
Catch4
Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings was one of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too powerful to be measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for employment by base, unworthy man.
“And it’s a good thing it doesn’t,” Yossarian told him, “because I never eat any of it. I have a liver condition.” “Oh, yes, I forgot,” said Milo, in a voice lowered deferentially. “Is it bad?” “Just bad enough,” Yossarian answered cheerfully. “I see,” said Milo. “What does that mean?” “It means that it couldn’t be better…” “I don’t think I understand.” “…without being worse. Now do you see?” “Yes, now I see. But I still don’t think I understand.”
Catch5
