You Have No Respect For

I Don't Think The 'what' Distinguishes A Good Novel From A Bad One But Rather The 'how.'

To Yossarian, The Idea Of Pennants As Prizes Was Absurd. No Money Went With Them, No Class Privileges. Like Olympic Medals And Tennis Trophies, All They Signified Was That The Owner Had Done Something Of No Benefit To Anyone More Capably Than Everyone Else.

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.

Let Someone Else Get Killed!

So Many Things Were Testing His Faith. There Was The Bible, Of Course, But The Bible Was A Book, And So Were Bleak House, Treasure Island, Ethan Frome And The Last Of The Mohicans. Did It Then Seem Probable, As He Had Once Overheard Dunbar Ask, That The Answers To Riddles Of Creation Would Be Supplied By People Too Ignorant To Understand The Mechanics Of Rainfall? Had Almighty God, In All His Infinite Wisdom, Really Been Afraid That Men Six Thousand Years Ago Would Succeed In Building A Tower To Heaven?