A Man's Head Is His Castle.

Remember That Everyone Deserves Some Fun During Working Hours.

From Men Motivated By Moral Certitude, History Teaches, No Lasting Good Ever Comes.

Actually There Were Many Officers' Clubs That Yossarian Had Not Helped Build, But He Was Proudest Of The One On Pianosa. It Was A Sturdy And Complex Monument To His Powers Of Determination. Yossarian Never Went There To Help Until It Was Finished; Then He Went There Often, So Pleased Was He With The Large , Fine, Rambling Shingled Building. It Was A Truly Splendid Building, And Yossarian Throbbed With A Mighty Sense Of Accomplishment Each Time He Gazed At It And Reflected That None Of The Work That Had Gone Into It Was His.

They Can Do Anything We Can't Stop Them From Doing.

Yossarian Was Cold, Too, And Shivering Uncontrollably. He Felt Goose Pimples Clacking All Over Him As He Gazed Down Despondently At The Grim Secret Snowden Had Spilled All Over The Messy Floor. It Was Easy To Read The Message In His Entrails. Man Was Matter, That Was Snowden's Secret. Drop Him Out A Window And He'll Fall. Set Fire To Him And He'll Burn. Bury Him And He'll Rot, Like Other Kinds Of Garbage. The Spirit Gone, Man Is Garbage. That Was Snowden's Secret. Ripeness Was All. I'm Cold,' Snowden Said. 'i'm Cold.