And Anything Worth Dying For

In Short, Clevinger Was One Of Those People With Lots Of Intelligence And No Brains, And Everyone Knew It Except Those Who Soon Found It Out.

History Did Not Demand Yossarian's Premature Demise, Justice Could Be Satisfied Without It, Progress Did Not Hinge Upon It, Victory Did Not Depend On It. That Men Would Die Was A Matter Of Necessity; Which Men Would Die, Though, Was A Matter Of Circumstance, And Yossarian Was Willing To Be The Victim Of Anything But Circumstance. But That Was War. Just About All He Could Find In Its Favor Was That It Paid Well And Liberated Children From The Pernicious Influence Of Their Parents.

After He Made Up His Mind To Spend The Rest Of The War In The Hospital, Yossarian Wrote Letters To Everyone He Knew Saying That He Was In The Hospital But Never Mentioning Why. One Day He Had A Better Idea. To Everyone He Knew He Wrote That He Was Going On A Very Dangerous Mission. "they Asked For Volunteers. It's Very Dangerous, But Someone Has To Do It. I'll Write You The Instant I Get Back." And He Had Not Written Anyone Since.

Some Men Are Born Mediocre, Some Men Achieve Mediocrity, And Some Men Have Mediocrity Thrust Upon Them. With Major Major It Had Been All Three. Even Among Men Lacking All Distinction He Inevitably Stood Out As A Man Lacking More Distinction Than All The Rest, And People Who Met Him Were Always Impressed By How Unimpressive He Was.

History Was A Trash Bag Of Random Coincidences Torn Open In A Wind. Surely, Watt With His Steam Engine, Faraday With His Electric Motor, And Edison With His Incandescent Light Bulb Did Not Have It As Their Goal To Contribute To A Fuel Shortage Some Day That Would Place Their Countries At The Mercy Of Arab Oil.