Joseph Heller

The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.

Catch-22” the old woman repeated, rocking her head up and down. “Catch-22. Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can’t stop them from doing.”

Bills piled up rapidly, and he was soon faced with the loss of his most precious medical instruments: his adding machine was repossessed, and then his typewriter. The goldfish died. Fortunately, just when things were blackest, the war broke out.

Chief White Halfoat was out to revenge himself upon the white man. He could barely read or write and had been assigned to Captain Black as assistant intelligence officer.

Luckily, the war broke out just in the nick of time, and a draft board picked me right up out of the middle and put me down safely in Lowery Field, Colorado.

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind

Captain Flume was obsessed with the idea that Chief White Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night when he was sound asleep and slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Captain Flume had obtained this idea from Chief White Halfoat himself, who did tiptoe up to his cot one night as he was dozing off, to hiss portentously that one night when he, Captain Flume, was sound asleep he, Chief White Halfoat, was going to slit his throat open for him from ear to ear.

He was a militant idealist who crusaded against racial bigotry by growing faint in its presence. He knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.

Sergeant Towser ran the squadron because there was no one else in the squadron to run it. He had no interest in war or advancement. He was interested in shards and Hepplewhite furniture.

“What is that?” Major -- de Coverley demanded at last.
“An egg,” Milo answered
“What kind of an egg?” Major -- de Coverley demanded.
“A hard-boiled egg,” Milo answered.
“What kind of a hard-boiled egg?” Major -- de Coverley demanded.
“A fresh hard-boiled egg,” Milo answered.
“Where did the fresh egg come from?” Major -- de Coverley demanded.
“From a chicken,” Milo answered.
“Where is the chicken?” Major -- de Coverley demanded.
“The chicken is in Malta,” Milo answered.
“How many chickens are there in Malta?”
“Enough chickens to lay fresh eggs for every officer in the squadron at five cents apiece from the mess fund,” Milo answered.
“I have a weakness for fresh eggs,” Major -- de Coverley confessed.