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.
Joseph HellerWho's they?" He wanted to know. "Who, specifically, do you think is trying to murder you?" "Every one of them," Yossarian told him. "Every one of whom?" "Every one of whom do you think?" "I haven't any idea." "Then how do you know they aren't?" "Because..." Clevinger sputtered, and turned speechless with frustration. Clevinger really thought he was right, but Yossarian had proof, because strangers he didn't know shot at him with cannons every time he flew up into the air to drop bombs on them, and it wasn't funny at all.
Joseph HellerDeath to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.
Joseph HellerIโm cold,' Snowden said softly, 'Iโm cold.' 'Youโre going to be all right, kid,' Yossarian reassured him with a grin. 'Youโre going to be all right.' 'Iโm cold,' Snowden said again in a frail, childlike voice. 'Iโm cold.' 'There, there,' Yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. 'There, there.' 'Iโm cold,' Snowden whimpered. 'Iโm cold.' 'There, there. There, there.
Joseph Heller