Where Are The Snowdens Of Yesteryear?

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.

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.

How Did I Get Here? Somebody Pushed Me. Somebody Must Have Set Me Off In This Direction And Clus-ters Of Other Hands Must Have Touched Themselves To The Controls At Various Times, For I Would Not Have Picked This Way For The World.

The Enemy Is Anybody Who's Going To Get You Killed, No Matter Which Side He's On.

I Don't Understand The Process Of Imagination-though I Know That I Am Very Much At Its Mercy.