[b]Joseph Heller
He was a spry, suave and very precise general who knew the circumference of the equator and always wrote “enhanced” when he meant “increased.” He was a prick.[/b]
An autodidactic prick no doubt.
[b]The chaplain had sinned, and it was good. Common sense told him that telling lies and defecting from duty were sins. On the other hand, everyone knew that sin was evil and that no good could come from evil. But he did feel good; he felt positively marvelous. Consequently, it followed logically that telling lies and defecting from duty could not be sins.
The chaplain had mastered, in a moment of divine intuition, the handy technique of protective rationalization, and he was exhilarated by the discovery. It was miraculous.
It was almost no trick at all, he saw, to turn vice into virtue, slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice. Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no character.[/b]
Maybe, but you can’t fool God.
Clevinger is a very bright guy, a Harvard man, who knows everything about literature except how to enjoy it.
In other words, a scholar.
[b]Oh, they’re there all right, Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after Yossarian’s fist fight 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?[/b]
Catch 17 as I recall.
What could you do? Major Major asked himself again. What could you do with a man who looked you squarely in the eye and said he would rather die than be killed in combat, a man who was at least as mature and intelligent as you were and who you had to pretend was not? What could you say to him?
Hell, you could say that about a few folks here.
Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father, or brother was killed, wounded, or reported missing in action.
Sounds like something Don Rumsfeld’s machine would write.