Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.
Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.
It made him proud that 29 months in the service had not blunted his genius for ineptitude.
That crazy bastard may be the only sane one left.
Yossarian marveled that children could suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing the slightest hint of fear or pain. He took for granted that they did submit so stoically. If not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for no craving for wealth or immortality could be so great, he felt, as to subsist on the sorrow of children.
He could not make them shut-up; they were worse than women. They had not brains enough to be introverted and repressed.
It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw, to turn vice into virtue and 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.
The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable orange-red, pear-shaped, plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had forgotten it like an indestructible and incarnadine symbol of his own ineptitude.
You pompous, rotund, neighborly, vacuous, complacent... - Yossarian
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories