飘尘
试着告诉读者，生活是多样的。每一个活着的人，在多元化的人生时空里， 扮演着某种角色，向着不同的方向展现着自己的千姿百态，书写着与众不同的生 命华章。
正文
一见钟情。
初次相见，尤塞瑞恩狂恋上了随军牧师。
他因肝痛住了医院，但无黄疸。正因为没有黄疸，这才让医生们感到困惑不解。假如肝痛变成了黄疸，医生们就能治；假如肝痛没有转成黄疸，而肝痛又消失了的话，医生们就让病人出院。可他只是肝痛，至今也没有黄疸，这让医生们感到困惑。
每天早晨，三位精力充沛，不苟言笑的男医生来查房。尽管他们眼神不怎么好，可个个嘴巴了得。随同他们一起来的是一位同样精力充沛、不苟言笑的护士，达克特。达克特是个讨厌尤塞瑞恩的众多护士中的一个。他们看了看挂在尤塞瑞恩病床床脚的病况记录卡，不耐烦地问了问尤塞瑞恩肝痛的情况。听尤塞瑞恩说一切照旧时，他们似乎很恼火。
“解大便了吗？”那位上校军医问。
见他摇了摇头，三个医生互换了一下眼色。
“再给他服一粒药。”
达克特护士用笔记下医嘱，四人朝下一张病床走去。病房的护士们都不喜欢尤塞瑞恩。其实，尤塞瑞恩的肝早就不疼了，但他就是不说，而那些医生们也从未起过疑心。医生们只是猜疑尤塞瑞恩的大便早就通了，只是他没有告诉他们。
尤塞瑞恩住在医院里什么都不缺。伙食还算过得去，一日三餐，顿顿都有人把饭端到他的病床上，而且还能吃到额外配给的鲜肉。下午天气酷热，他和其他病号还能喝到凉果汁或是凉巧克力牛奶。除了医生和护士，从来就没有什么人来打扰过他。每天上午，他除了花上点时间删改信件，之后便无所事事，整日里闲躺在病床上消磨时光，倒亦清闲自在。他在医院里过得相当舒坦，而且要这么住下去也挺容易，因为他的体温一直在华氏一百零一度。跟邓巴相比，他可是舒服多了。邓巴为了拿那份人家端到他病床前的餐点，不得不一而再，再而三地将自己摔成个狗吃屎。
尤塞瑞恩拿定主意要在医院里呆下去， 直到战争结束。他写信告诉每一位他认识的人，说他住院了。不过， 他从未提及自己为什么住院。有一天，他心生妙计，写信给每一位熟人，告诉他们，自己要去执行一项相当危险的飞行任务。“他们在征募志愿人员。任务很危险，但总得有人去干、等我一完成任务回来，就给你去信。” 从那天起，他再也没有给任何人写过任何一封信。
病房里每个当官的病员要删改所有当兵的病员所写的信件，士兵病员只能呆在自己的病房里。删改信件实在枯燥得很。当尤塞瑞恩知道士兵病员的生活乐趣不比当官的强多少时，尤塞瑞恩感到大失所望。第一天下来，他便兴味索然了。于是，他别出心裁地发明了种种游戏， 为这单调的差事添些色彩。一天，他宣布要“处决”信里所有的修饰语，这样一来，凡经他审查过的信件，信里的副词和形容词便统统不见了。第二天，他又向冠词开战。第三天，他的创意达到了更高点，把信里的内容全给删了，只剩下了那些冠词。他觉得这种删改提高了信件的动力学和内线性张力，使每封信的内容更为一致。没隔多久，他又涂掉了落款部分，正文则一字不动。一次，他删去了一封信所有的内容，只保留了上款“亲爱的玛丽”，并在信笺下方写上：“我苦苦地思念著你。美国随军牧师A·T·塔普曼。”A·T·塔普曼是飞行大队随军牧师的姓名。
当他再也想不出什么花花肠子在信上搞鬼时，他便开始攻击信封上的姓名和地址，仿佛自己是上帝， 随手漫不经心地一挥，便抹去了所有的住宅和街道名称，让所有的大都市消失。院方规定审查官必须在自己删改过的每一封信上署名。大多数信尤塞瑞恩看都没看过。凡是自己没看过的信，他便签上自己的姓名；要是看过了的，他则写上：“华盛顿·俄夫英”。后来这名字他写得不耐烦了，便改用“俄夫英·华盛顿”。删改信封一事引起了严重反响，在某些养尊处优的高层将领中间激起了一阵焦虑情绪。结果，刑事调查部派了一名工作人员扮成病人，混进了病房。军官们都知道他是刑事调查部的人，因为他老是打听一个名叫俄夫英或是华盛顿的军官的下落，但是，一天下来，他就不愿意再审查信件了。他觉得审查那些信件实在太无聊。
尤塞瑞恩住的病房挺不错，这是他和邓巴住过的最好的病房。跟他们同病房的是位战斗机上尉飞行员，二十四岁，蓄著稀稀拉拉的金黄色八字须。这家伙曾在隆冬时节执行飞行任务时被炮火击中，飞机坠入了亚得里亚海，但他竟安然无事，连感冒也没染上。时下已是夏天，他的飞机没让人给击落，反倒说自己得了流行性感冒。尤塞瑞恩右侧的病床上的是一位患了疟疾而被吓得半死的上尉，这家伙屁股上被蚊子叮了一口，此刻正脉脉含情地趴在床上。尤塞瑞恩的对面是邓巴，中间隔著通道。紧挨邓巴的是一名炮兵上尉，现在尤塞瑞恩再也不跟他下棋了。这家伙棋下得极好，每回跟他对弈总是趣味无穷，然而，正因为弈棋趣味无穷，反让尤塞瑞恩有一种被棋愚弄的感觉，所以尤塞瑞恩后来就不再跟他下棋了。再过去便是那个来自德克萨斯州颇有教养的德克萨斯人，这家伙看上去很像电影明星，他颇有爱国心地认为，较之于无产者， 流浪汉、娼妓、罪犯、堕落分子、无神论者和粗鄙下流的人，有产者，亦即上等人，理应获得更多的选票。
那天德克萨斯人被送进病房时，尤塞瑞恩正在删改信件。天气虽酷热，倒也宁静无事。暑热沉沉地罩着屋顶，屋里闷得透不出一丝气来。邓巴纹丝不动地仰躺在床上，两眼似洋娃娃一般，直愣愣地盯著天花板。他在培养自己耐性，竭尽所能地苟延残喘。邓巴苟活的举止，让尤塞瑞恩以为他已经翘了辫子。德克萨斯人被安置在病房中央的一张床上。没过多久，便开始发表高论。
邓巴霍地坐起身，“让你说中了，”他激奋得吼了起来。“确实是少了点什么，我一直觉得少了样什么东西，这下我知道少了什么。”他使劲一拳击在手心里。“缺少了爱国精神，”他断言道。 “你说得没错，”
尤塞瑞恩也冲他大声嚷嚷，“你说得没错，你说得没错、你说得没错。我们每个人都在不停地拼死拼活， 为了挣几个热狗、布鲁克林玉米饼、妈妈苹果馅饼。可有谁愿意替上等人效力？又有谁愿意替上等人卖命拉选票？没有爱国精神，也无爱国心。”
尤塞瑞恩左边床上的那位准尉却无动于衷。“哪个在胡说八道？”他不耐烦地问嘟囔了一句，翻过身，继续睡他的觉。
德克萨斯人起初倒是显得性情温和、豪爽，招人喜爱。然而三天过后，就再也没人再能容忍他了。
他惹人讨厌，使人浑身痒痒不舒服，所以，除了那个全身素裹的士兵，大家全都躲著他。因为那个士兵根本无法动弹，他混身上下裹著石膏和纱布，两只胳膊和两条腿都废了。他是在夜里被人偷偷抬进病房里的。人们一早醒来才发现病房里多了他这么个人。 人们看见他古怪的双腿从髋部被悬挂起来，古怪的 双臂被成直角地吊了起来。黑沉沉的铅陀稳挂在他的上方， 四肢被那铅陀借重力古怪地悬吊在半空中。他的左右胳膊肘内侧的绷带处各缝进了一条拉链的口子，纯净的液体从一只透明的瓶子经由此处流进他的体内。一节锌管从他腹股沟处的石膏处无声地伸出，管子接着一根细长的橡皮管，橡皮管将肾排泄物点滴不漏地排入地上的一只透明的封口瓶内。等到地上的瓶子滴满了，胳膊肘内侧的输液瓶空了，这两只瓶子就会立刻被上下调过个，液体便重新流入他的体内。这个素裹着的士兵浑身上下只有一处是人们能看得到的，那就是嘴巴上方那个皮开肉绽的黑洞。
全身素裹的士兵被安顿在紧挨著德克萨斯人的一张病床上。从早到晚，德克萨斯人都会侧身坐在自己的床上，兴致勃勃又满腔伶悯地对那士兵说个不停。那个士兵对他没有反应，德克萨斯人也觉得无所谓。
病房里每天测量两次体温，一早一晚。护士克雷默端了满满一瓶体温计来到病房，沿著病房两侧走一圈，挨个儿给病员分发体温计。轮到那个全身素裹的士兵时，她也有自己的绝招──把体温计塞进他嘴巴上的洞里，让它稳稳地搁在洞口的下沿。发完体温计，她便回到第一张病床，取出病人口中的体温计，记下体温，然后再走向下一张床，依次再绕病房一周。一天下午，她在病房转了一圈后，再次来到那个浑身白色的士兵病榻前，取出他的体温计读体温时，发现那士兵竟然死掉了。
“杀人犯，”邓巴轻声说道。 德克萨斯人抬头望着他，疑惑地咧嘴笑了笑。
“凶手，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“你们俩在说什么？”德克萨斯人紧张不安地问道。
“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
“是你把他杀死的，”尤塞瑞恩说。
德克萨斯人的身子往后缩了缩。“你们俩准是疯了，我连碰也没碰他一下。”
“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
“我听说是你杀死他的，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“你杀了他，就因为他是黑人，”邓巴说。
“你们俩准是疯了，”德克萨斯人大声叫道，“这儿是不准黑人住的，他们有专门安置黑人的地方。” “是那个中士偷偷送他进来的，”邓巴说。
“那个共产党中士，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“看来，这事你们俩早就知道了。”
尤塞瑞恩病床左边的那个准尉对那个士兵的意外死亡的事无动于衷。他对什么事都很冷漠，不管什么事，只要不惹到他头上，他绝不会开口说一句话。
尤塞瑞恩遇见随军牧师的前一天，餐厅里的一只炉子爆炸，烧著了厨房的一侧，强烈的热浪迅速弥漫这个地方，甚至在三百英尺开外的尤塞瑞恩的病房，病人也能听到火苗的咆哮声和木头燃烧时发出的尖锐的爆裂声。滚滚浓烟掠过橘黄色的窗户。大约过了一刻钟，机场消防车赶到现场救火。经过半个小时紧张急速的行动，消防队员开始控制住火势。突然，空中传来了一阵单调熟悉的的轰炸机执行完任务后返航的嗡嗡声。消防队员只得收起水龙带，火速返回机场，以防有飞机坠毁起火。轰炸机安全降落了，最后一架飞机刚一落地，消防队员便立刻掉转车头，快速驶过山坡，赶回医院继续灭火。当他们赶到医院，大火己熄灭了。那火是自己熄灭的，而且灭得很彻底，以至于没留下一处余烬需要用水来浇灭。失望的消防队员无事可做，只好喝口温咖啡，四处转悠转悠，勾引勾引女护士们。
失火的第二天，随军牧师来到医院，当时，尤塞瑞恩正忙著删改信件。 他删去了信中所有的内容，只剩下那些卿卿我我的词句。牧师在两张病床中间的一把椅子上坐了下来，询问尤塞瑞恩身体如何。他的身体微微向一侧倾斜，尤塞瑞恩所能见到的唯一标志是牧师衬衫肩章上的上尉军衔，至于牧师是什么人，他却一无所知。于是便想当然地认为，他要么是个医生， 要么就是个疯子。
“哦，感觉挺好，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“只是肝有点儿疼，所以我想我应该不很正常。不过，不管怎么说，我必须承认，我感觉还好。”
“那就好，”牧师说。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，感觉还行。”
“我本想早点来的，”牧师说，“可是我的身体一直不怎么好。”
“那实在是太糟糕了，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“我只是得了感冒，”牧师马上补充道。
“我一直在发烧，烧到华氏一百零一度。”尤塞瑞恩也连忙补上一句。
“那真糟糕，”牧师说。
“是啊！”尤塞瑞恩表示同意。
“没错，是糟透了。” 牧师有些不安。片刻后，他问道：“有什么事需要我帮忙？”
“没有，没有，”尤塞瑞恩叹息道，“我想医生们已经尽力了。”
“不，不。”牧师有些脸红了。“我不是这个意思。我是指香烟啦…书啦…或者…玩具什么的。”
“不，不，”尤塞瑞恩说，“谢谢你。我想我要的东西都有了，缺的只是健康。”
“真是糟透了。”
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，是糟透了。”
牧师又不安起来，左顾右盼了好几回，然后抬头凝视天花板，接著又垂目盯著地上出神。他深吸了一口气。
“内特利上尉托我向你问好，”他说。
尤塞瑞恩听说内特利上尉也是他的朋友，心里很是过意不去。看来，他俩的谈话最终有了一个基础。
"你认识内特利上尉？”他遗憾地问道。
“认识，我跟他很熟，”“他有些疯疯癫癫的，对不对？”
牧师笑了，他笑得很尴尬。“恐怕这我可不能说，我想我跟他还没那么熟。”
“你尽可相信我的话，”尤塞瑞恩说，“他的确有些疯疯癫癫的。”
牧师沉默了片刻后，突然打破沉默，突兀地问道：“你就是尤塞瑞恩上尉，对吧？”
“内特利开始并不顺，因为他的家庭背景很好。”
“请原谅，”牧师胆怯地追问道，“我或许犯了个大错。你是尤塞瑞恩上尉吗？”
“没错，”尤塞瑞恩坦白地说，“我是尤塞瑞恩上尉。”
“二五六中队的？”
“是战时二五六中队的，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我不知道这儿还有别的什么人也叫尤塞瑞恩上尉。据我所知，我是唯一的尤塞瑞恩上尉，不过这只是就我自己所知。”
“我明白了，”牧师说，显得有些不怎么高兴。
“如果你想替我们中队写一首象征性诗歌的话，”尤塞瑞恩指出，“那就是二的战斗的八次方。”
“不，”牧师低声道，“我没打算给你们中队写什么象征性诗歌。”
尤塞瑞恩猛地挺直身子。他瞅见牧师衬衫领子的另一边有一枚小小的银十字架。他很惊讶，因为以前他从未跟一位随军牧师谈过话。
“原来你是个随军牧师，”他兴奋得大声叫了起来，“我不知道你是个随军牧师。”
“呃，没错，我是个牧师，”牧师答道，“难道你真的不知道？”
“呃，不，我真的不知道你是个随军牧师。”尤塞瑞恩目不转睛地看着牧师，咧大了嘴，一副入迷的样子。
“我以前还真没见过随军牧师呢。” 牧师的脸又红了，垂目注视著自己的双手。他约摸有三十二岁，个子瘦小，黄褐色头发，有一双缺乏自信的，棕色的眼睛。他那狭长的脸很苍白，面颊两侧的瘦削处满是昔日长青春痘所留下的瘢痕。 尤塞瑞恩很想帮他忙。
“要我帮什么忙吗？”倒是牧师先开口问了起来。
尤塞瑞恩摇了摇头，还是咧著嘴笑。“不用，很抱歉，我想要的东西都有了，我在这儿过得很舒服。说实在的，我也没什么病。”
“那很好嘛。”牧师话一出口就觉得懊悔，连忙把指节塞进嘴里，惶惶然地傻笑起来，可是尤塞瑞恩依旧缄口不语，甚是令他失望。 “我还得去探望飞行大队的其他人，”末了，他语带歉意地说，“我会再来看你的，也许明天吧。”
“请你一定要来，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“只要你真想见我，我就来,”牧师低下头，很是羞怯地说,“我发现我的出现让许多人感到不自在。” 尤塞瑞恩充满同情地说：“我想见你，你不会让我感到不自在。”
牧师感激地喜不自胜，他垂目凝视着一直捏在手里的那张纸条。他不出声地数著病房里的床位，疑惑地将注意力集中在了邓巴身上。
“请问一下，”他轻声说，“那位是邓巴中尉吗？”
“没错，”尤塞瑞恩高声回答，“那是邓巴中尉。” “谢谢你，”牧师轻声说，“多谢了。我必须去看看邓巴，我必须去看看飞行大队所有住院的人。”
“住在别的病房里的也要看吗？”尤塞瑞恩问。 “是的。”
“去那些病房你可得多留点神，神父，”尤塞瑞恩提醒他说，“那儿关的可全是精神病病人，尽是些疯子。”
“你不必叫我神父，”牧师解释道，“我是个激进浸礼会派的教徒。”
“那些病房的事我可是巨认真的，”尤塞瑞恩表情严肃地说，“宪兵保护不了你，因为那些人疯到了极点。我本该陪你一块儿去，可我怕极了。精神病可是传染的。我这个病房是整个医院里唯一没有精神病的地方。除了我们这些人，其他的人，个个都是疯子。也就是说，全世界或许只有我这个病房住的是神智健全的人。”
牧师迅速地站起身来，侧身离开尤塞瑞恩的病床，微笑地点了点头，要他放心，并答应他自己一定会谨慎行事。“我该去看邓巴中尉了，”他说着，有点依依不舍。最后，他问道：“邓巴中尉他人怎么样？”
“没说的，”尤塞瑞恩满有把握地说，“一个真正的贵族， 这个世界上最好的,最无献身精神的人。”
“那不是我要问的，”牧师说罢，又小声问道，“他病得厉害吗？”
“不，不厉害。说实在的，他压根儿就没病。”
“那就好。”牧师如释重负地松了口气。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，很好。”
“随军牧师，” 就在牧师见过邓巴并从病房离开时，邓巴说：“你看见了吗？随军牧师”。
“他很甜是不是！”尤塞瑞恩说，“也许他们该投他三票。”
“他们是谁？”邓巴疑惑不解地问。
病房的尽头，在一个用绿色三合板隔了起来的小小的隐私区里，搁了张床铺。床铺的主人则是位终日板著一张脸的中年上校， 他老是在床上忙个不停。有个女人每天都来探望他，这女人看上去很温柔，长得很甜，金灰色的卷发。她既不是护士，又不是陆军妇女队队员，更不是红十字会的女职员。不过每天下午，她必来皮亚诺萨岛上的这所医院。她身穿色彩柔和淡雅且又时髦考究的夏装，脚穿一双半高跟白皮鞋，腿上穿的笔直的尼龙长袜。上校在通讯，昼夜忙碌不停地把内部的一连串消息传送到方形的纱布垫里，他细心封好纱布垫，把它们放入床边的床头柜上的一只有盖的白桶内。上校气度不凡，嘴巴宽大，两颊凹陷，双眼深陷，目光阴郁，似发了霉一般，脸色灰白。他每次咳起嗽时，总是很平静，小心翼翼，用纱布垫慢慢地拍着自己的嘴唇，不由自主地露出厌恶的神态。
上校老是被一大群专家围著。这些专家试着确诊他的病情。他们用光照他的眼睛，检测他是否看得见，用针扎他的神经，看他是否有感觉。这些专家中有泌尿学家查他的尿、淋巴学家查他的淋巴、内分泌学家查他的内分泌、心理学家查他的心理、皮肤学家查他的皮肤、病理学家查他的病理、囊肿学家查他的囊肿。此外，还有一位哈佛大学动物学系的鲸类学家，此人是个秃顶，一脸迂腐，因IBM公司一台机器的阳极出了毛病，被人无情地劫持到这个卫生队来，陪伴这位垂死的上校，试著跟他探讨《白鲸》这部小说。
上校还真的接受了全面检查。他身上没有一个器官没被上过药，动过刀，涂过药粉，清洗过，用手摆弄过， 拍过照，挪动过，取出过，替换过。那个衣着整洁、身材修长挺秀气的女人则常坐在床边抚摸著他。每次微笑时，她的神情里总带著一种端庄的忧伤。上校身材瘦长，有些驼背，起身走路时，背驼得更是厉害，身体屈成一个拱形。他挪步时异常小心，屈膝一寸寸地缓慢前移。他的两眼下眼圈呈紫黑色。那女人说话很轻，甚至比上校的咳嗽声还要轻，病房里的人谁亦不曾听见她的声音。 不到十天，德克萨斯人便把所有病人清理出了病房。最先离开病房的是那位炮兵上尉，随后，大批病员相继逃离。邓巴、尤塞瑞恩和驾驶战斗机的上尉飞行员是同一天上午逃出病房的。邓巴的头不晕了，上尉飞行员鼻子通气了，尤塞瑞恩则告诉医生们，他的肝不痛了。这病好得还真快，就连那位准尉也逃之夭夭了。十天之内，德克萨斯人就把病房里所有的病员赶回了各自的岗位，只有刑事调查部的那个人留了下来──他从上尉飞行员那儿染上了感冒，后来竟转成了肺炎。
章节概要以及注释 Chapter Summaries with Notes
概要 Summary
As the novel opens, its protagonist, Captain John Yossarian, is in the squadron hospital, on the island of Pianosa, during the latter stages of World War II. He suffers from a pain in the liver. The doctors do not know what to make of Yossarian's illness. Yossarian is enjoying his stay. His meals are brought to him in bed, and he is served more food than at camp. Yossarian writes letters to his friends and relatives, telling them that he has been sent on a "very dangerous mission," and then never writes to them again. While in hospital, Yossarian is given the dreary task of censoring letters written by enlisted-men patients. He finds this a monotonous job and begins to tamper with the material in these letters to keep himself amused. On one of the letters he signs the name of his group's chaplain, Tappman. On others he signs the name "Washington Irving." A C.I.D man is sent into the hospital to find out who is responsible for the tampering of letters. Dunbar, too, is in the ward. A Texan is brought in who is "good- natured, generous and likable" and neither Dunbar nor Yossarian like him. There is also a "soldier in white," a patient who is encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze. One day the soldier dies, and Dunbar and Yossarian charge the Texan with his murder. The chaplain comes to visit Yossarian. He is genuinely concerned about Yossarian's health. Yossarian confesses that he is not really sick. Yossarian and Dunbar claim that they are well, and leave the hospital to escape the Texan. However, the C.I.D. man has fallen sick and remains in hospital. The author uses the first chapter to introduce some of the characters, most notably Yossarian, Chaplain Tappman, the "soldier in white," the Texan, and Dunbar.
故事发生在二战后期，一开始，尤塞瑞恩因肝痛住进了皮亚诺萨岛上的飞行大队的 医院。医生们不知道他究竟得的是什么病。尤塞瑞恩很乐意住在医院里。一日三餐， 顿顿都有人把饭端到他的病床上，比在军营里要好。 尤塞瑞恩写信给他的亲朋好友， 告诉他们，自己在执行一项相当危险的飞行任务。然后，就再也没有给他们写过信。 在医院里。尤塞瑞恩的一个的差事是删改所有当兵的病员的信件。删改信件很枯燥， 于是，他别出心裁地发明了种种删改信件的游戏， 为自己找乐趣，并在信笺下方签 上了飞行大队随军牧师A·T·塔普曼的姓名。刑事调查部派了一名工作人员调查是 谁删改了信件。邓巴也住了院。还有个来自德克萨斯州颇有教养的德克萨斯人，尤 塞瑞恩和邓巴都不喜欢他。病房里还有个“全身素裹的士兵”，从头到脚裹著石膏 和纱布，后来那士兵死掉了。尤塞瑞恩和邓巴指控是德克萨斯人谋杀了那个士兵。 医院失火了，随军牧师来看望尤塞瑞恩， 他很关心尤塞瑞恩的病情。尤塞瑞恩向牧 师承认自己其实没什么病。尤塞瑞恩和邓巴声称自己的病好了， 为了躲开德克萨斯 人，便出了院。不过，刑事调查部的那个人却因肺炎留住入院了。作者在第一章里 介绍了尤塞瑞恩，随军牧师塔普曼，“全身素裹的士兵”，邓巴，和德克萨斯人。
分析 Analysis
The setting of the novel is of special significance. In reality, Pianosa is a tiny island in the Mediterranean, a few miles south of Elba, between mainland Italy and Corsica. In the novel, it is fictionally enlarged to include the location of Yossarian's 256th Squadron of the Army Air Forces in World War II. Setting the tone early, Heller has Yossarian refer to the squadron as the "two to the fighting eighth power." The squadron's assignment is to bomb enemy positions in Italy and eastern France. Yossarian is a bombardier in the squadron. He occasionally seeks escape from the madness and mortality of war by having himself admitted to the hospital, which, imperfect though it is, becomes a symbol of refuge. Although the hospital is a haven, it is reflective of the military with its emphasis on institutional routine and sometimes absurd formality.
Heller's use of time is also important and can be confusing. Most of the novel takes place in 1944, but flashbacks to 1942 and 1943 occur without warning. Briefly, Yossarian was in basic training at Lowery Field in Colorado in 1942. There, he first discovered the haven of an Army hospital. In 1943, Yossarian went through cadet training in Santa Ana, California. He arrives at Pianosa early in 1944. The novel ends in December of 1944. The French author Louis-Ferdinand Celine (1894 -1961), especially through his novel Journey to the End of Night, greatly influenced Heller's approach to structure and time. After reading Celine, the author of Catch-22 chose to compose in a different realm of reality in which truth is more important than fact and essence more important than literal sequence. For the confused reader, a helpful guide to time in Catch-22 is the number of missions assigned by Colonel Cathcart or completed by Yossarian. The novel opens in the middle of the story (scholars use the Latin term in medias res, "in the midst of things"). It is August 1944, and Yossarian has completed forty-four missions. It is also at this time that he first meets the chaplain, which helps us date the scene. (Stephen W. Potts provides a thorough and well-documented chronology to the events of the novel in Catch-22: Antiheroic Antinovel.) Time is purposely out of joint in the book, and that is crucial because Heller' s method of telling the story is episodic and relies heavily on his depiction of character.
The central character, Yossarian, is often called an "antihero" because his values appear to contrast with those of the standard heroic figure. But within the context of the novel, he is courageous and inventive, as Heller demonstrates from the beginning. Yossarian has the courage to confront the madness of war and to struggle against the confines of institutional order. At the hospital, he fights boredom by censoring the enlisted men's letters in creative ways. One day, he blocks out all adverbs and adjectives. Another, he takes out every mention of the articles a, an, and the. Another time, he blackens the entire message except for the salutation, "Dear Mary," and closes the letter, as if it is from the group's chaplain: "I yearn for you tragically. A. T. Tappman, Chaplain, U. S. Army." On some letters, he signs Washington Irving's name as censor or, when that wears thin, Irving Washington. Yossarian is contrary to the point of paradox. When Appleby is introduced as a "fair-haired boy from Iowa who believed in God, Motherhood and the American Way of Life," a fellow whom everyone likes, Yossarian's response is, "I hate that son of a bitch."
注释 Notes
The reader is immediately introduced to the main character, Yossarian. He is shown trying to avoid going back on duty by feigning illness. This is not a very flattering picture of him, but it is realistic. Dunbar and others also pretend to be physically sick in order to survive the war.
The doctors and nurses stand for bureaucratic and governmental indifference. They appear heartless, clinically detached, and brutally inefficient. The sense of decay and death is already evident. A soldier in white dies in the hospital ward. The chaplain, who comes to visit the patients, is ill at ease in such surroundings. It is evident that the soldier has died because of the incompetence of the doctors.
It is not certain why Yossarian and Dunbar hate the Texan. Perhaps they hate him because he is good-natured and generous, and Yossarian and Dunbar have come to be wary of such people.
生词 Glossary
1. ethereal of or like - the ether or upper regions of space; light; airy; unearthly.
2. echelon - a subdivision of a military force according to rank, position or function.
3. C.I.D. - The initials stand for Central Intelligence Division. The irony is that the C.I.D. representatives in the novel are far from intelligent, suggesting the oxymoron (a combination of contradictory terms) "military intelligence."
4. tepid - barely or moderately warm; lukewarm.
5. Washington Irving - American author (1783-1859), best known for short stories such as "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle."
6. diffident - lacking self-confidence; timid; shy.
7. Raskolnikov - Clevinger compares Yossarian to the central character in Fyodor Dostoyevski's novel Crime and Punishment (1866), who maintains, at least for a time, that the end justifies the means.
Chapter 1: The Texan It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him. Yossarian was in the hospital with a pain in his liver that fell just short of being jaundice. The doctors were puzzled by the fact that it wasn't quite jaundice. If it became jaundice they could treat it. If it didn't become jaundice and went away they could discharge him. But this just being short of jaundice all the time confused them. Each morning they came around, three brisk and serious men with efficient mouths and inefficient eyes, accompanied by brisk and serious Nurse Duckett, one of the ward nurses who didn't like Yossarian. They read the chart at the foot of the bed and asked impatiently about the pain. They seemed irritated when he told them it was exactly the same. "Still no movement?" the full colonel demanded. The doctors exchanged a look when he shook his head. "Give him another pill." Nurse Duckett made a note to give Yossarian another pill, and the four of them moved along to the next bed. None of the nurses liked Yossarian. Actually, the pain in his liver had gone away, but Yossarian didnt say anything and the doctors never suspected. They just suspected that he had been moving his bowels and not telling anyone. Yossarian had everything he wanted in the hospital. The food wasn't too bad, and his meals were brought to him in bed. There were extra rations of fresh meat, and during the hot part of the afternoon he and the others were served chilled fruit juice or chilled chocolate milk. Apart from the doctors and the nurses, no one ever disturbed him. For a little while in the morning he had to censor letters, but he was free after that to spend the rest of each day lying around idly with a clear conscience. He was comfortable in the hospital, and it was easy to stay on because he always ran a temperature of 101. He was even more comfortable than Dunbar, who had to keep falling down on his face in order to get his meals brought to him in bed. After he made up his mind to spend the rest of the war in the hospital, Yossarian wrote letters to everyone he knew saying that he was in the hospital but never mentioning why. One day he had a better idea. To everyone he knew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. "They asked for volunteers. It's very dangerous, but someone has to do it. I'll write you the instant I get back." And he had not written anyone since. All the officer patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the enlisted-men patients, who were kept in residence in wards of their own. It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers. After the first day he had no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective. The next day he made war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity the following day when he blacked out everything in the letters but a, an and the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in just about every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of salutations and signatures and leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked out all but the salutation "Dear Mary" from a letter, and at the bottom he wrote, "I yearn for you tragically A. T. Tappman, Chaplain, U.S. Army." A. T. Tappman was the group chaplain's name. When he had exhausted all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses on the envelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire metropolises with careless flicks of his wrist as though he were God. Catch-22 required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer's name. Most letters he didn't read at all. On those he didn't read at all he wrote his own name. On those he did read he wrote,"Washington Irving." When that grew monotonous he wrote, "Irving Washington." Censoring the envelopes had serious repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon that floated a C.I.D. man back into the ward posing as a patient. They all knew he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about an officer named Irving or Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn't censor letters. He found them too monotonous. It was a good ward this time, one of the best he and Dunbar had ever enjoyed. With them this time was the twenty-four-year-old fighter-pilot captain with the sparse golden mustache who had been shot into the Adriatic Sea in midwinter and had not even caught cold. Now the summer was upon them, the captain had not been shot down, and he said he had the grippe. In the bed on Yossarian' s right, still lying amorously on his belly, was the startled captain with malaria in his blood and a mosquito bite on his ass. Across the aisle from Yossarian was Dunbar, and next to Dunbar was the artillery captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess. The captain was a good chess player, and the games were always interesting. Yossarian had stopped playing chess with him because the games were so interesting they were foolish. Then there was the educated Texan from Texas who looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of means - - decent folk should be given more votes than drifters, whores, criminals, degenerates, atheists and indecent folk - - people without means. Yossarian was unspringing rhythms in the letters the day they brought the Texan in. It was another quiet, hot, untroubled day. The heat pressed heavily on the roof, stifling sound. Dunbar was lying motionless on his back again with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll's. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom. Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead. They put the Texan in a bed in the middle of the ward, and it wasn't long before he donated his views. Dunbar sat up like a shot. "That's it," he cried excitedly. "There was something missing - - all the time I knew there was something missing - - and now I know what it is." He banged his fist down into his palm. "No patriotism," he declared. "You're right," Yossarian shouted back. "You're right, you're right, you're right. The hot dog, the Brooklyn Dodgers. Mom's apple pie. That's what everyone' s fighting for. But who's fighting for the decent folk? Who's fighting for more votes for the decent folk? There's no patriotism, that's what it is. And no matriotism, either." The warrant officer on Yossarian's left was unimpressed. "Who gives a shit?" he asked tiredly, and turned over on his side to go to sleep. The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him. He sent shudders of annoyance scampering up ticklish spines, and everybody fled from him - - everybody but the soldier in white, who had no choice. The soldier in white was encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze. He had two useless legs and two useless arms. He had been smuggled into the ward during the night, and the men had no idea he was among them until they awoke in the morning and saw the two strange legs hoisted from the hips, the two strange arms anchored up perpendicularly, all four limbs pinioned strangely in air by lead weights suspended darkly above him that never moved. Sewn into the bandages over the insides of both elbows were zippered lips through which he was fed clear fluid from a clear jar. A silent zinc pipe rose from the cement on his groin and was coupled to a slim rubber hose that carried waste from his kidneys and dripped it efficiently into a clear, stoppered jar on the floor. When the jar on the floor was full, the jar feeding his elbow was empty, and the two were simply switched quickly so that stuff could drip back into him. All they ever really saw of the soldier in white was a frayed black hole over his mouth. The soldier in white had been filed next to the Texan, and the Texan sat sideways on his own bed and talked to him throughout the morning, afternoon and evening in a pleasant, sympathetic drawl. The Texan never minded that he got no reply. Temperatures were taken twice a day in the ward. Early each morning and late each afternoon Nurse Cramer entered with a jar full of thermometers and worked her way up one side of the ward and down the other, distributing a thermometer to each patient. She managed the soldier in white by inserting a thermometer into the hole over his mouthand leaving it balanced there on the lower rim. When she returned to the man in the first bed, she took his thermometer and recorded his temperature, and then moved on to the next bed and continued around the ward again. One afternoon when she had completed her first circuit of the ward and came a second time to the soldier in white, she read his temperature and discovered that he was dead. "Murderer," Dunbar said quietly. The Texan looked up at him with an uncertain grin. "Killer," Yossarian said. "What are you talkin' about?" the Texan asked nervously. "You murdered him," said Dunbar. "You killed him," said Yossarian. The Texan shrank back. "You fellas are crazy. I didnt even touch him." "You murdered him," said Dunbar. "I heard you kill him," said Yossarian. "You killed him because he was a nigger," Dunbar said. "You fellas are crazy," the Texan cried. "They don't allow niggers in here. They got a special place for niggers." "The sergeant smuggled him in," Dunbar said. "The Communist sergeant," said Yossarian. "And you knew it." The warrant officer on Yossarian's left was unimpressed by the entire incident of the soldier in white. The warrant officer was unimpressed by everything and never spoke at all unless it was to show irritation. The day before Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to one side of the kitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in Yossarian's ward, almost three hundred feet away, they could hear the roar of the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the orange-tinted windows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic half hour it was touch and go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the monotonous old drone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had to roll up their hoses and speed back to the field in case one of the planes crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was down, the firemen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to resume their fight with the fire at the hospital. When they got there, the blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even an ember to be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen to do but drink tepid coffee and hang around trying to screw the nurses. The chaplain arrived the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words from the letters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked him how he was feeling. He had placed himself a bit to one side, and the captain's bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian could see. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that he was either another doctor or another madman. "Oh, pretty good," he answered. "I've got a slight pain in my liver and I haven't been the most regular of fellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty good." "That's good," said the chaplain. "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is good." "I meant to come around sooner," the chaplain said, "but I really haven't been well." "That's too bad," Yossarian said. "Just a head cold," the chaplain added quickly. "I've got a fever of a hundred and one," Yossarian added just as quickly. "That's too bad," said the chaplain. "Yes," Yossarian agreed. "Yes, that is too bad." The chaplain fidgeted. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked after a while. "No, no." Yossarian sighed. "The doctors are doing all that's humanly possible, I suppose." "No, no." The chaplain colored faintly. "I didn't mean anything like that. I meant cigarettes...or books...or...toys." "No, no," Yossarian said. "Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose - - everything but good health." "That's too bad." "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is too bad." The chaplain stirred again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He drew a deep breath. "Lieutenant Nately sends his regards," he said. Yossarian was sorry to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their conversation after all. "You know Lieutenant Nately?" he asked regretfully. "Yes, I know Lieutenant Nately quite well." "He's a bit loony, isn't he?" The chaplain's smile was embarrassed. "I'm afraid I couldn't say. I don't think I know him that well." "You can take my word for it," Yossarian said. "He's as goofy as they come." The chaplain weighed the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. "You are Captain Yossarian, aren't you?" "Nately had a bad start. He came from a good family." "Please excuse me," the chaplain persisted timorously. "I may be committing a very grave error. Are you Captain Yossarian?" "Yes," Captain Yossarian confessed. "I am Captain Yossarian." "Of the 256th Squadron?" "Of the fighting 256th Squadron," Yossarian replied. "I didn't know there were any other Captain Yossarians. As far as I know, I'm the only Captain Yossarian I know, but that's only as far as I know." "I see," the chaplain said unhappily"That's two to the fighting eighth power, " Yossarian pointed out, "if you're thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron." "No," mumbled the chaplain. "I'm not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron." Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain's collar. He was thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before. "You're a chaplain," he exclaimed ecstatically. "I didn't know you were a chaplain." "Why, yes," the chaplain answered. "Didn't you know I was a chaplain?" "Why, no. I didn't know you were a chaplain." Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated grin. "I've never really seen a chaplain before." The chaplain flushed again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two with tan hair and brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay in the basin of each cheek. Yossarian wanted to help him. "Can I do anything at all to help you?" the chaplain asked. Yossarian shook his head, still grinning. "No, I'm sorry. I have everything I need and I'm quite comfortable. In fact, I'm not even sick." "That's good." As soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into his mouth with a giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and disappointed him. "There are other men in the group I must visit," he apologized finally. "I'll come to see you again, probably tomorrow." "Please do that," Yossarian said. "I'll come only if you want me to," the chaplain said, lowering his head shyly. "I've noticed that I make many of the men uncomfortable." Yossarian glowed with affection. "I want you to," he said. "You won't make me uncomfortable." The chaplain beamed gratefully and then peered down at a slip of paper he had been concealing in his hand all the while. He counted along the beds in the ward, moving his lips, and then centered his attention dubiously on Dunbar. "May I inquire," he whispered softly, "if that is Lieutenant Dunbar?" "Yes," Yossarian answered loudly, "that is Lieutenant Dunbar." "Thank you," the chaplain whispered. "Thank you very much. I must visit with him. I must visit with every member of the group who is in the hospital." "Even those in the other wards?" Yossarian asked. "Even those in the other wards." "Be careful in those other wards, Father," Yossarian warned. "That's where they keep the mental cases. They're filled with lunatics." "It isn't necessary to call me Father," the chaplain explained. "I'm an Anabaptist." "I'm dead serious about those other wards," Yossarian continued grimly. "M.P.s won't protect you, because they're craziest of all. I'd go with you myself, but I'm scared stiff. Insanity is contagious. This is the only sane ward in the whole hospital. Everybody is crazy but us. This is probably the only sane ward in the whole world, for that matter." The chaplain rose quickly and edged away from Yossarian's bed, and then nodded with a conciliating smile and promised to conduct himself with appropriate caution. "And now I must visit with Lieutenant Dunbar," he said. Still he lingered, remorsefully. "How is Lieutenant Dunbar?" he asked at last. "As good as they go," Yossarian assured him. "A true prince. One of the finest, least dedicated men in the whole world." "I didn't mean that," the chaplain answered, whispering again. "Is he very sick?" "No, he isn't very sick. In fact, he isn't sick at all." "That's good." The chaplain sighed with relief. "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is good." "A chaplain," Dunbar said when the chaplain had visited him and gone. "Did you see that? A chaplain." "Wasn't he sweet?" said Yossarian. "Maybe they should give him three votes." "Who's they?" Dunbar demanded suspiciously. In a bed in the small private section at the end of the ward, always working ceaselessly behind the green plyboard partition, was the solemn middle-aged colonel who was visited every day by a gentle, sweet-faced woman with curly ash-blond hair who was not a nurse and not a Wac and not a Red Cross girl but who nevertheless appeared faithfully at the hospital in Pianosa each afternoon wearing pretty pastel summer dresses that were very smart and white leather pumps with heels half high at the base of nylon seams that were inevitably straight. The colonel was in Communications, and he was kept busy day and night transmitting glutinous messages from the interior into square pads of gauze which he sealed meticulously and delivered to a covered white pail that stood on the night table beside his bed. The colonel was gorgeous. He had a cavernous mouth, cavernous cheeks, cavernous, sad, mildewed eyes. His face was the color of clouded silver. He coughed quietly, gingerly, and dabbed the pads slowly at his lips with a distaste that had become automatic. The colonel dwelt in a vortex of specialists who were still specializing in trying to determine what was troubling him. They hurled lights in his eyes to see if he could see, rammed needles into nerves to hear if he could feel. There was a urologist for his urine, a lymphologist for his lymph, an endocrinologist for his endocrines, a psychologist for his psyche, a dermatologist for his derma; there was a pathologist for his pathos, a cystologist for his cysts, and a bald and pedantic cetologist from the zoology department at Harvard who had been shanghaied ruthlessly into the Medical Corps by a faulty anode in an I.B.M. machine and spent his sessions with the dying colonel trying to discuss Moby Dick with him. The colonel had really been investigated. There was not an organ of his body that had not been drugged and derogated, dusted and dredged, fingered and photographed, removed, plundered and replaced. Neat, slender and erect, the woman touched him often as she sat by his bedside and was the epitome of stately sorrow each time she smiled. The colonel was tall, thin and stooped. When he rose to walk, he bent forward even more, making a deep cavity of his body, and placed his feet down very carefully, moving ahead by inches from the knees down. There were violet pools under his eyes.The woman spoke softly, softer even than the colonel coughed, and none of the men in the ward ever heard her voice. In less than ten days the Texan cleared the ward. The artillery captain broke first, and after that the exodus started. Dunbar, Yossarian and the fighter captain all bolted the same morning. Dunbar stopped having dizzy spells, and the fighter captain blew his nose. Yossarian told the doctors that the pain in his liver had gone away. It was as easy as that. Even the warrant officer fled. In less than ten days, the Texan drove everybody in the ward back to duty - - everybody but the C.I.D. man, who had caught cold from the fighter captain and come down with pneumonia.
初次相见，尤塞瑞恩狂恋上了随军牧师。
他因肝痛住了医院，但无黄疸。正因为没有黄疸，这才让医生们感到困惑不解。假如肝痛变成了黄疸，医生们就能治；假如肝痛没有转成黄疸，而肝痛又消失了的话，医生们就让病人出院。可他只是肝痛，至今也没有黄疸，这让医生们感到困惑。
每天早晨，三位精力充沛，不苟言笑的男医生来查房。尽管他们眼神不怎么好，可个个嘴巴了得。随同他们一起来的是一位同样精力充沛、不苟言笑的护士，达克特。达克特是个讨厌尤塞瑞恩的众多护士中的一个。他们看了看挂在尤塞瑞恩病床床脚的病况记录卡，不耐烦地问了问尤塞瑞恩肝痛的情况。听尤塞瑞恩说一切照旧时，他们似乎很恼火。
“解大便了吗？”那位上校军医问。
见他摇了摇头，三个医生互换了一下眼色。
“再给他服一粒药。”
达克特护士用笔记下医嘱，四人朝下一张病床走去。病房的护士们都不喜欢尤塞瑞恩。其实，尤塞瑞恩的肝早就不疼了，但他就是不说，而那些医生们也从未起过疑心。医生们只是猜疑尤塞瑞恩的大便早就通了，只是他没有告诉他们。
尤塞瑞恩住在医院里什么都不缺。伙食还算过得去，一日三餐，顿顿都有人把饭端到他的病床上，而且还能吃到额外配给的鲜肉。下午天气酷热，他和其他病号还能喝到凉果汁或是凉巧克力牛奶。除了医生和护士，从来就没有什么人来打扰过他。每天上午，他除了花上点时间删改信件，之后便无所事事，整日里闲躺在病床上消磨时光，倒亦清闲自在。他在医院里过得相当舒坦，而且要这么住下去也挺容易，因为他的体温一直在华氏一百零一度。跟邓巴相比，他可是舒服多了。邓巴为了拿那份人家端到他病床前的餐点，不得不一而再，再而三地将自己摔成个狗吃屎。
尤塞瑞恩拿定主意要在医院里呆下去， 直到战争结束。他写信告诉每一位他认识的人，说他住院了。不过， 他从未提及自己为什么住院。有一天，他心生妙计，写信给每一位熟人，告诉他们，自己要去执行一项相当危险的飞行任务。“他们在征募志愿人员。任务很危险，但总得有人去干、等我一完成任务回来，就给你去信。” 从那天起，他再也没有给任何人写过任何一封信。
病房里每个当官的病员要删改所有当兵的病员所写的信件，士兵病员只能呆在自己的病房里。删改信件实在枯燥得很。当尤塞瑞恩知道士兵病员的生活乐趣不比当官的强多少时，尤塞瑞恩感到大失所望。第一天下来，他便兴味索然了。于是，他别出心裁地发明了种种游戏， 为这单调的差事添些色彩。一天，他宣布要“处决”信里所有的修饰语，这样一来，凡经他审查过的信件，信里的副词和形容词便统统不见了。第二天，他又向冠词开战。第三天，他的创意达到了更高点，把信里的内容全给删了，只剩下了那些冠词。他觉得这种删改提高了信件的动力学和内线性张力，使每封信的内容更为一致。没隔多久，他又涂掉了落款部分，正文则一字不动。一次，他删去了一封信所有的内容，只保留了上款“亲爱的玛丽”，并在信笺下方写上：“我苦苦地思念著你。美国随军牧师A·T·塔普曼。”A·T·塔普曼是飞行大队随军牧师的姓名。
当他再也想不出什么花花肠子在信上搞鬼时，他便开始攻击信封上的姓名和地址，仿佛自己是上帝， 随手漫不经心地一挥，便抹去了所有的住宅和街道名称，让所有的大都市消失。院方规定审查官必须在自己删改过的每一封信上署名。大多数信尤塞瑞恩看都没看过。凡是自己没看过的信，他便签上自己的姓名；要是看过了的，他则写上：“华盛顿·俄夫英”。后来这名字他写得不耐烦了，便改用“俄夫英·华盛顿”。删改信封一事引起了严重反响，在某些养尊处优的高层将领中间激起了一阵焦虑情绪。结果，刑事调查部派了一名工作人员扮成病人，混进了病房。军官们都知道他是刑事调查部的人，因为他老是打听一个名叫俄夫英或是华盛顿的军官的下落，但是，一天下来，他就不愿意再审查信件了。他觉得审查那些信件实在太无聊。
尤塞瑞恩住的病房挺不错，这是他和邓巴住过的最好的病房。跟他们同病房的是位战斗机上尉飞行员，二十四岁，蓄著稀稀拉拉的金黄色八字须。这家伙曾在隆冬时节执行飞行任务时被炮火击中，飞机坠入了亚得里亚海，但他竟安然无事，连感冒也没染上。时下已是夏天，他的飞机没让人给击落，反倒说自己得了流行性感冒。尤塞瑞恩右侧的病床上的是一位患了疟疾而被吓得半死的上尉，这家伙屁股上被蚊子叮了一口，此刻正脉脉含情地趴在床上。尤塞瑞恩的对面是邓巴，中间隔著通道。紧挨邓巴的是一名炮兵上尉，现在尤塞瑞恩再也不跟他下棋了。这家伙棋下得极好，每回跟他对弈总是趣味无穷，然而，正因为弈棋趣味无穷，反让尤塞瑞恩有一种被棋愚弄的感觉，所以尤塞瑞恩后来就不再跟他下棋了。再过去便是那个来自德克萨斯州颇有教养的德克萨斯人，这家伙看上去很像电影明星，他颇有爱国心地认为，较之于无产者， 流浪汉、娼妓、罪犯、堕落分子、无神论者和粗鄙下流的人，有产者，亦即上等人，理应获得更多的选票。
那天德克萨斯人被送进病房时，尤塞瑞恩正在删改信件。天气虽酷热，倒也宁静无事。暑热沉沉地罩着屋顶，屋里闷得透不出一丝气来。邓巴纹丝不动地仰躺在床上，两眼似洋娃娃一般，直愣愣地盯著天花板。他在培养自己耐性，竭尽所能地苟延残喘。邓巴苟活的举止，让尤塞瑞恩以为他已经翘了辫子。德克萨斯人被安置在病房中央的一张床上。没过多久，便开始发表高论。
邓巴霍地坐起身，“让你说中了，”他激奋得吼了起来。“确实是少了点什么，我一直觉得少了样什么东西，这下我知道少了什么。”他使劲一拳击在手心里。“缺少了爱国精神，”他断言道。 “你说得没错，”
尤塞瑞恩也冲他大声嚷嚷，“你说得没错，你说得没错、你说得没错。我们每个人都在不停地拼死拼活， 为了挣几个热狗、布鲁克林玉米饼、妈妈苹果馅饼。可有谁愿意替上等人效力？又有谁愿意替上等人卖命拉选票？没有爱国精神，也无爱国心。”
尤塞瑞恩左边床上的那位准尉却无动于衷。“哪个在胡说八道？”他不耐烦地问嘟囔了一句，翻过身，继续睡他的觉。
德克萨斯人起初倒是显得性情温和、豪爽，招人喜爱。然而三天过后，就再也没人再能容忍他了。
他惹人讨厌，使人浑身痒痒不舒服，所以，除了那个全身素裹的士兵，大家全都躲著他。因为那个士兵根本无法动弹，他混身上下裹著石膏和纱布，两只胳膊和两条腿都废了。他是在夜里被人偷偷抬进病房里的。人们一早醒来才发现病房里多了他这么个人。 人们看见他古怪的双腿从髋部被悬挂起来，古怪的 双臂被成直角地吊了起来。黑沉沉的铅陀稳挂在他的上方， 四肢被那铅陀借重力古怪地悬吊在半空中。他的左右胳膊肘内侧的绷带处各缝进了一条拉链的口子，纯净的液体从一只透明的瓶子经由此处流进他的体内。一节锌管从他腹股沟处的石膏处无声地伸出，管子接着一根细长的橡皮管，橡皮管将肾排泄物点滴不漏地排入地上的一只透明的封口瓶内。等到地上的瓶子滴满了，胳膊肘内侧的输液瓶空了，这两只瓶子就会立刻被上下调过个，液体便重新流入他的体内。这个素裹着的士兵浑身上下只有一处是人们能看得到的，那就是嘴巴上方那个皮开肉绽的黑洞。
全身素裹的士兵被安顿在紧挨著德克萨斯人的一张病床上。从早到晚，德克萨斯人都会侧身坐在自己的床上，兴致勃勃又满腔伶悯地对那士兵说个不停。那个士兵对他没有反应，德克萨斯人也觉得无所谓。
病房里每天测量两次体温，一早一晚。护士克雷默端了满满一瓶体温计来到病房，沿著病房两侧走一圈，挨个儿给病员分发体温计。轮到那个全身素裹的士兵时，她也有自己的绝招──把体温计塞进他嘴巴上的洞里，让它稳稳地搁在洞口的下沿。发完体温计，她便回到第一张病床，取出病人口中的体温计，记下体温，然后再走向下一张床，依次再绕病房一周。一天下午，她在病房转了一圈后，再次来到那个浑身白色的士兵病榻前，取出他的体温计读体温时，发现那士兵竟然死掉了。
“杀人犯，”邓巴轻声说道。 德克萨斯人抬头望着他，疑惑地咧嘴笑了笑。
“凶手，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“你们俩在说什么？”德克萨斯人紧张不安地问道。
“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
“是你把他杀死的，”尤塞瑞恩说。
德克萨斯人的身子往后缩了缩。“你们俩准是疯了，我连碰也没碰他一下。”
“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
“我听说是你杀死他的，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“你杀了他，就因为他是黑人，”邓巴说。
“你们俩准是疯了，”德克萨斯人大声叫道，“这儿是不准黑人住的，他们有专门安置黑人的地方。” “是那个中士偷偷送他进来的，”邓巴说。
“那个共产党中士，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“看来，这事你们俩早就知道了。”
尤塞瑞恩病床左边的那个准尉对那个士兵的意外死亡的事无动于衷。他对什么事都很冷漠，不管什么事，只要不惹到他头上，他绝不会开口说一句话。
尤塞瑞恩遇见随军牧师的前一天，餐厅里的一只炉子爆炸，烧著了厨房的一侧，强烈的热浪迅速弥漫这个地方，甚至在三百英尺开外的尤塞瑞恩的病房，病人也能听到火苗的咆哮声和木头燃烧时发出的尖锐的爆裂声。滚滚浓烟掠过橘黄色的窗户。大约过了一刻钟，机场消防车赶到现场救火。经过半个小时紧张急速的行动，消防队员开始控制住火势。突然，空中传来了一阵单调熟悉的的轰炸机执行完任务后返航的嗡嗡声。消防队员只得收起水龙带，火速返回机场，以防有飞机坠毁起火。轰炸机安全降落了，最后一架飞机刚一落地，消防队员便立刻掉转车头，快速驶过山坡，赶回医院继续灭火。当他们赶到医院，大火己熄灭了。那火是自己熄灭的，而且灭得很彻底，以至于没留下一处余烬需要用水来浇灭。失望的消防队员无事可做，只好喝口温咖啡，四处转悠转悠，勾引勾引女护士们。
失火的第二天，随军牧师来到医院，当时，尤塞瑞恩正忙著删改信件。 他删去了信中所有的内容，只剩下那些卿卿我我的词句。牧师在两张病床中间的一把椅子上坐了下来，询问尤塞瑞恩身体如何。他的身体微微向一侧倾斜，尤塞瑞恩所能见到的唯一标志是牧师衬衫肩章上的上尉军衔，至于牧师是什么人，他却一无所知。于是便想当然地认为，他要么是个医生， 要么就是个疯子。
“哦，感觉挺好，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“只是肝有点儿疼，所以我想我应该不很正常。不过，不管怎么说，我必须承认，我感觉还好。”
“那就好，”牧师说。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，感觉还行。”
“我本想早点来的，”牧师说，“可是我的身体一直不怎么好。”
“那实在是太糟糕了，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“我只是得了感冒，”牧师马上补充道。
“我一直在发烧，烧到华氏一百零一度。”尤塞瑞恩也连忙补上一句。
“那真糟糕，”牧师说。
“是啊！”尤塞瑞恩表示同意。
“没错，是糟透了。” 牧师有些不安。片刻后，他问道：“有什么事需要我帮忙？”
“没有，没有，”尤塞瑞恩叹息道，“我想医生们已经尽力了。”
“不，不。”牧师有些脸红了。“我不是这个意思。我是指香烟啦…书啦…或者…玩具什么的。”
“不，不，”尤塞瑞恩说，“谢谢你。我想我要的东西都有了，缺的只是健康。”
“真是糟透了。”
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，是糟透了。”
牧师又不安起来，左顾右盼了好几回，然后抬头凝视天花板，接著又垂目盯著地上出神。他深吸了一口气。
“内特利上尉托我向你问好，”他说。
尤塞瑞恩听说内特利上尉也是他的朋友，心里很是过意不去。看来，他俩的谈话最终有了一个基础。
"你认识内特利上尉？”他遗憾地问道。
“认识，我跟他很熟，”“他有些疯疯癫癫的，对不对？”
牧师笑了，他笑得很尴尬。“恐怕这我可不能说，我想我跟他还没那么熟。”
“你尽可相信我的话，”尤塞瑞恩说，“他的确有些疯疯癫癫的。”
牧师沉默了片刻后，突然打破沉默，突兀地问道：“你就是尤塞瑞恩上尉，对吧？”
“内特利开始并不顺，因为他的家庭背景很好。”
“请原谅，”牧师胆怯地追问道，“我或许犯了个大错。你是尤塞瑞恩上尉吗？”
“没错，”尤塞瑞恩坦白地说，“我是尤塞瑞恩上尉。”
“二五六中队的？”
“是战时二五六中队的，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我不知道这儿还有别的什么人也叫尤塞瑞恩上尉。据我所知，我是唯一的尤塞瑞恩上尉，不过这只是就我自己所知。”
“我明白了，”牧师说，显得有些不怎么高兴。
“如果你想替我们中队写一首象征性诗歌的话，”尤塞瑞恩指出，“那就是二的战斗的八次方。”
“不，”牧师低声道，“我没打算给你们中队写什么象征性诗歌。”
尤塞瑞恩猛地挺直身子。他瞅见牧师衬衫领子的另一边有一枚小小的银十字架。他很惊讶，因为以前他从未跟一位随军牧师谈过话。
“原来你是个随军牧师，”他兴奋得大声叫了起来，“我不知道你是个随军牧师。”
“呃，没错，我是个牧师，”牧师答道，“难道你真的不知道？”
“呃，不，我真的不知道你是个随军牧师。”尤塞瑞恩目不转睛地看着牧师，咧大了嘴，一副入迷的样子。
“我以前还真没见过随军牧师呢。” 牧师的脸又红了，垂目注视著自己的双手。他约摸有三十二岁，个子瘦小，黄褐色头发，有一双缺乏自信的，棕色的眼睛。他那狭长的脸很苍白，面颊两侧的瘦削处满是昔日长青春痘所留下的瘢痕。 尤塞瑞恩很想帮他忙。
“要我帮什么忙吗？”倒是牧师先开口问了起来。
尤塞瑞恩摇了摇头，还是咧著嘴笑。“不用，很抱歉，我想要的东西都有了，我在这儿过得很舒服。说实在的，我也没什么病。”
“那很好嘛。”牧师话一出口就觉得懊悔，连忙把指节塞进嘴里，惶惶然地傻笑起来，可是尤塞瑞恩依旧缄口不语，甚是令他失望。 “我还得去探望飞行大队的其他人，”末了，他语带歉意地说，“我会再来看你的，也许明天吧。”
“请你一定要来，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“只要你真想见我，我就来,”牧师低下头，很是羞怯地说,“我发现我的出现让许多人感到不自在。” 尤塞瑞恩充满同情地说：“我想见你，你不会让我感到不自在。”
牧师感激地喜不自胜，他垂目凝视着一直捏在手里的那张纸条。他不出声地数著病房里的床位，疑惑地将注意力集中在了邓巴身上。
“请问一下，”他轻声说，“那位是邓巴中尉吗？”
“没错，”尤塞瑞恩高声回答，“那是邓巴中尉。” “谢谢你，”牧师轻声说，“多谢了。我必须去看看邓巴，我必须去看看飞行大队所有住院的人。”
“住在别的病房里的也要看吗？”尤塞瑞恩问。 “是的。”
“去那些病房你可得多留点神，神父，”尤塞瑞恩提醒他说，“那儿关的可全是精神病病人，尽是些疯子。”
“你不必叫我神父，”牧师解释道，“我是个激进浸礼会派的教徒。”
“那些病房的事我可是巨认真的，”尤塞瑞恩表情严肃地说，“宪兵保护不了你，因为那些人疯到了极点。我本该陪你一块儿去，可我怕极了。精神病可是传染的。我这个病房是整个医院里唯一没有精神病的地方。除了我们这些人，其他的人，个个都是疯子。也就是说，全世界或许只有我这个病房住的是神智健全的人。”
牧师迅速地站起身来，侧身离开尤塞瑞恩的病床，微笑地点了点头，要他放心，并答应他自己一定会谨慎行事。“我该去看邓巴中尉了，”他说着，有点依依不舍。最后，他问道：“邓巴中尉他人怎么样？”
“没说的，”尤塞瑞恩满有把握地说，“一个真正的贵族， 这个世界上最好的,最无献身精神的人。”
“那不是我要问的，”牧师说罢，又小声问道，“他病得厉害吗？”
“不，不厉害。说实在的，他压根儿就没病。”
“那就好。”牧师如释重负地松了口气。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩说，“没错，很好。”
“随军牧师，” 就在牧师见过邓巴并从病房离开时，邓巴说：“你看见了吗？随军牧师”。
“他很甜是不是！”尤塞瑞恩说，“也许他们该投他三票。”
“他们是谁？”邓巴疑惑不解地问。
病房的尽头，在一个用绿色三合板隔了起来的小小的隐私区里，搁了张床铺。床铺的主人则是位终日板著一张脸的中年上校， 他老是在床上忙个不停。有个女人每天都来探望他，这女人看上去很温柔，长得很甜，金灰色的卷发。她既不是护士，又不是陆军妇女队队员，更不是红十字会的女职员。不过每天下午，她必来皮亚诺萨岛上的这所医院。她身穿色彩柔和淡雅且又时髦考究的夏装，脚穿一双半高跟白皮鞋，腿上穿的笔直的尼龙长袜。上校在通讯，昼夜忙碌不停地把内部的一连串消息传送到方形的纱布垫里，他细心封好纱布垫，把它们放入床边的床头柜上的一只有盖的白桶内。上校气度不凡，嘴巴宽大，两颊凹陷，双眼深陷，目光阴郁，似发了霉一般，脸色灰白。他每次咳起嗽时，总是很平静，小心翼翼，用纱布垫慢慢地拍着自己的嘴唇，不由自主地露出厌恶的神态。
上校老是被一大群专家围著。这些专家试着确诊他的病情。他们用光照他的眼睛，检测他是否看得见，用针扎他的神经，看他是否有感觉。这些专家中有泌尿学家查他的尿、淋巴学家查他的淋巴、内分泌学家查他的内分泌、心理学家查他的心理、皮肤学家查他的皮肤、病理学家查他的病理、囊肿学家查他的囊肿。此外，还有一位哈佛大学动物学系的鲸类学家，此人是个秃顶，一脸迂腐，因IBM公司一台机器的阳极出了毛病，被人无情地劫持到这个卫生队来，陪伴这位垂死的上校，试著跟他探讨《白鲸》这部小说。
上校还真的接受了全面检查。他身上没有一个器官没被上过药，动过刀，涂过药粉，清洗过，用手摆弄过， 拍过照，挪动过，取出过，替换过。那个衣着整洁、身材修长挺秀气的女人则常坐在床边抚摸著他。每次微笑时，她的神情里总带著一种端庄的忧伤。上校身材瘦长，有些驼背，起身走路时，背驼得更是厉害，身体屈成一个拱形。他挪步时异常小心，屈膝一寸寸地缓慢前移。他的两眼下眼圈呈紫黑色。那女人说话很轻，甚至比上校的咳嗽声还要轻，病房里的人谁亦不曾听见她的声音。 不到十天，德克萨斯人便把所有病人清理出了病房。最先离开病房的是那位炮兵上尉，随后，大批病员相继逃离。邓巴、尤塞瑞恩和驾驶战斗机的上尉飞行员是同一天上午逃出病房的。邓巴的头不晕了，上尉飞行员鼻子通气了，尤塞瑞恩则告诉医生们，他的肝不痛了。这病好得还真快，就连那位准尉也逃之夭夭了。十天之内，德克萨斯人就把病房里所有的病员赶回了各自的岗位，只有刑事调查部的那个人留了下来──他从上尉飞行员那儿染上了感冒，后来竟转成了肺炎。
章节概要以及注释 Chapter Summaries with Notes
概要 Summary
As the novel opens, its protagonist, Captain John Yossarian, is in the squadron hospital, on the island of Pianosa, during the latter stages of World War II. He suffers from a pain in the liver. The doctors do not know what to make of Yossarian's illness. Yossarian is enjoying his stay. His meals are brought to him in bed, and he is served more food than at camp. Yossarian writes letters to his friends and relatives, telling them that he has been sent on a "very dangerous mission," and then never writes to them again. While in hospital, Yossarian is given the dreary task of censoring letters written by enlisted-men patients. He finds this a monotonous job and begins to tamper with the material in these letters to keep himself amused. On one of the letters he signs the name of his group's chaplain, Tappman. On others he signs the name "Washington Irving." A C.I.D man is sent into the hospital to find out who is responsible for the tampering of letters. Dunbar, too, is in the ward. A Texan is brought in who is "good- natured, generous and likable" and neither Dunbar nor Yossarian like him. There is also a "soldier in white," a patient who is encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze. One day the soldier dies, and Dunbar and Yossarian charge the Texan with his murder. The chaplain comes to visit Yossarian. He is genuinely concerned about Yossarian's health. Yossarian confesses that he is not really sick. Yossarian and Dunbar claim that they are well, and leave the hospital to escape the Texan. However, the C.I.D. man has fallen sick and remains in hospital. The author uses the first chapter to introduce some of the characters, most notably Yossarian, Chaplain Tappman, the "soldier in white," the Texan, and Dunbar.
故事发生在二战后期，一开始，尤塞瑞恩因肝痛住进了皮亚诺萨岛上的飞行大队的 医院。医生们不知道他究竟得的是什么病。尤塞瑞恩很乐意住在医院里。一日三餐， 顿顿都有人把饭端到他的病床上，比在军营里要好。 尤塞瑞恩写信给他的亲朋好友， 告诉他们，自己在执行一项相当危险的飞行任务。然后，就再也没有给他们写过信。 在医院里。尤塞瑞恩的一个的差事是删改所有当兵的病员的信件。删改信件很枯燥， 于是，他别出心裁地发明了种种删改信件的游戏， 为自己找乐趣，并在信笺下方签 上了飞行大队随军牧师A·T·塔普曼的姓名。刑事调查部派了一名工作人员调查是 谁删改了信件。邓巴也住了院。还有个来自德克萨斯州颇有教养的德克萨斯人，尤 塞瑞恩和邓巴都不喜欢他。病房里还有个“全身素裹的士兵”，从头到脚裹著石膏 和纱布，后来那士兵死掉了。尤塞瑞恩和邓巴指控是德克萨斯人谋杀了那个士兵。 医院失火了，随军牧师来看望尤塞瑞恩， 他很关心尤塞瑞恩的病情。尤塞瑞恩向牧 师承认自己其实没什么病。尤塞瑞恩和邓巴声称自己的病好了， 为了躲开德克萨斯 人，便出了院。不过，刑事调查部的那个人却因肺炎留住入院了。作者在第一章里 介绍了尤塞瑞恩，随军牧师塔普曼，“全身素裹的士兵”，邓巴，和德克萨斯人。
分析 Analysis
The setting of the novel is of special significance. In reality, Pianosa is a tiny island in the Mediterranean, a few miles south of Elba, between mainland Italy and Corsica. In the novel, it is fictionally enlarged to include the location of Yossarian's 256th Squadron of the Army Air Forces in World War II. Setting the tone early, Heller has Yossarian refer to the squadron as the "two to the fighting eighth power." The squadron's assignment is to bomb enemy positions in Italy and eastern France. Yossarian is a bombardier in the squadron. He occasionally seeks escape from the madness and mortality of war by having himself admitted to the hospital, which, imperfect though it is, becomes a symbol of refuge. Although the hospital is a haven, it is reflective of the military with its emphasis on institutional routine and sometimes absurd formality.
Heller's use of time is also important and can be confusing. Most of the novel takes place in 1944, but flashbacks to 1942 and 1943 occur without warning. Briefly, Yossarian was in basic training at Lowery Field in Colorado in 1942. There, he first discovered the haven of an Army hospital. In 1943, Yossarian went through cadet training in Santa Ana, California. He arrives at Pianosa early in 1944. The novel ends in December of 1944. The French author Louis-Ferdinand Celine (1894 -1961), especially through his novel Journey to the End of Night, greatly influenced Heller's approach to structure and time. After reading Celine, the author of Catch-22 chose to compose in a different realm of reality in which truth is more important than fact and essence more important than literal sequence. For the confused reader, a helpful guide to time in Catch-22 is the number of missions assigned by Colonel Cathcart or completed by Yossarian. The novel opens in the middle of the story (scholars use the Latin term in medias res, "in the midst of things"). It is August 1944, and Yossarian has completed forty-four missions. It is also at this time that he first meets the chaplain, which helps us date the scene. (Stephen W. Potts provides a thorough and well-documented chronology to the events of the novel in Catch-22: Antiheroic Antinovel.) Time is purposely out of joint in the book, and that is crucial because Heller' s method of telling the story is episodic and relies heavily on his depiction of character.
The central character, Yossarian, is often called an "antihero" because his values appear to contrast with those of the standard heroic figure. But within the context of the novel, he is courageous and inventive, as Heller demonstrates from the beginning. Yossarian has the courage to confront the madness of war and to struggle against the confines of institutional order. At the hospital, he fights boredom by censoring the enlisted men's letters in creative ways. One day, he blocks out all adverbs and adjectives. Another, he takes out every mention of the articles a, an, and the. Another time, he blackens the entire message except for the salutation, "Dear Mary," and closes the letter, as if it is from the group's chaplain: "I yearn for you tragically. A. T. Tappman, Chaplain, U. S. Army." On some letters, he signs Washington Irving's name as censor or, when that wears thin, Irving Washington. Yossarian is contrary to the point of paradox. When Appleby is introduced as a "fair-haired boy from Iowa who believed in God, Motherhood and the American Way of Life," a fellow whom everyone likes, Yossarian's response is, "I hate that son of a bitch."
注释 Notes
The reader is immediately introduced to the main character, Yossarian. He is shown trying to avoid going back on duty by feigning illness. This is not a very flattering picture of him, but it is realistic. Dunbar and others also pretend to be physically sick in order to survive the war.
The doctors and nurses stand for bureaucratic and governmental indifference. They appear heartless, clinically detached, and brutally inefficient. The sense of decay and death is already evident. A soldier in white dies in the hospital ward. The chaplain, who comes to visit the patients, is ill at ease in such surroundings. It is evident that the soldier has died because of the incompetence of the doctors.
It is not certain why Yossarian and Dunbar hate the Texan. Perhaps they hate him because he is good-natured and generous, and Yossarian and Dunbar have come to be wary of such people.
生词 Glossary
1. ethereal of or like - the ether or upper regions of space; light; airy; unearthly.
2. echelon - a subdivision of a military force according to rank, position or function.
3. C.I.D. - The initials stand for Central Intelligence Division. The irony is that the C.I.D. representatives in the novel are far from intelligent, suggesting the oxymoron (a combination of contradictory terms) "military intelligence."
4. tepid - barely or moderately warm; lukewarm.
5. Washington Irving - American author (1783-1859), best known for short stories such as "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle."
6. diffident - lacking self-confidence; timid; shy.
7. Raskolnikov - Clevinger compares Yossarian to the central character in Fyodor Dostoyevski's novel Crime and Punishment (1866), who maintains, at least for a time, that the end justifies the means.
Chapter 1: The Texan It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him. Yossarian was in the hospital with a pain in his liver that fell just short of being jaundice. The doctors were puzzled by the fact that it wasn't quite jaundice. If it became jaundice they could treat it. If it didn't become jaundice and went away they could discharge him. But this just being short of jaundice all the time confused them. Each morning they came around, three brisk and serious men with efficient mouths and inefficient eyes, accompanied by brisk and serious Nurse Duckett, one of the ward nurses who didn't like Yossarian. They read the chart at the foot of the bed and asked impatiently about the pain. They seemed irritated when he told them it was exactly the same. "Still no movement?" the full colonel demanded. The doctors exchanged a look when he shook his head. "Give him another pill." Nurse Duckett made a note to give Yossarian another pill, and the four of them moved along to the next bed. None of the nurses liked Yossarian. Actually, the pain in his liver had gone away, but Yossarian didnt say anything and the doctors never suspected. They just suspected that he had been moving his bowels and not telling anyone. Yossarian had everything he wanted in the hospital. The food wasn't too bad, and his meals were brought to him in bed. There were extra rations of fresh meat, and during the hot part of the afternoon he and the others were served chilled fruit juice or chilled chocolate milk. Apart from the doctors and the nurses, no one ever disturbed him. For a little while in the morning he had to censor letters, but he was free after that to spend the rest of each day lying around idly with a clear conscience. He was comfortable in the hospital, and it was easy to stay on because he always ran a temperature of 101. He was even more comfortable than Dunbar, who had to keep falling down on his face in order to get his meals brought to him in bed. After he made up his mind to spend the rest of the war in the hospital, Yossarian wrote letters to everyone he knew saying that he was in the hospital but never mentioning why. One day he had a better idea. To everyone he knew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. "They asked for volunteers. It's very dangerous, but someone has to do it. I'll write you the instant I get back." And he had not written anyone since. All the officer patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the enlisted-men patients, who were kept in residence in wards of their own. It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers. After the first day he had no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective. The next day he made war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity the following day when he blacked out everything in the letters but a, an and the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in just about every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of salutations and signatures and leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked out all but the salutation "Dear Mary" from a letter, and at the bottom he wrote, "I yearn for you tragically A. T. Tappman, Chaplain, U.S. Army." A. T. Tappman was the group chaplain's name. When he had exhausted all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses on the envelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire metropolises with careless flicks of his wrist as though he were God. Catch-22 required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer's name. Most letters he didn't read at all. On those he didn't read at all he wrote his own name. On those he did read he wrote,"Washington Irving." When that grew monotonous he wrote, "Irving Washington." Censoring the envelopes had serious repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon that floated a C.I.D. man back into the ward posing as a patient. They all knew he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about an officer named Irving or Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn't censor letters. He found them too monotonous. It was a good ward this time, one of the best he and Dunbar had ever enjoyed. With them this time was the twenty-four-year-old fighter-pilot captain with the sparse golden mustache who had been shot into the Adriatic Sea in midwinter and had not even caught cold. Now the summer was upon them, the captain had not been shot down, and he said he had the grippe. In the bed on Yossarian' s right, still lying amorously on his belly, was the startled captain with malaria in his blood and a mosquito bite on his ass. Across the aisle from Yossarian was Dunbar, and next to Dunbar was the artillery captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess. The captain was a good chess player, and the games were always interesting. Yossarian had stopped playing chess with him because the games were so interesting they were foolish. Then there was the educated Texan from Texas who looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of means - - decent folk should be given more votes than drifters, whores, criminals, degenerates, atheists and indecent folk - - people without means. Yossarian was unspringing rhythms in the letters the day they brought the Texan in. It was another quiet, hot, untroubled day. The heat pressed heavily on the roof, stifling sound. Dunbar was lying motionless on his back again with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll's. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by cultivating boredom. Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead. They put the Texan in a bed in the middle of the ward, and it wasn't long before he donated his views. Dunbar sat up like a shot. "That's it," he cried excitedly. "There was something missing - - all the time I knew there was something missing - - and now I know what it is." He banged his fist down into his palm. "No patriotism," he declared. "You're right," Yossarian shouted back. "You're right, you're right, you're right. The hot dog, the Brooklyn Dodgers. Mom's apple pie. That's what everyone' s fighting for. But who's fighting for the decent folk? Who's fighting for more votes for the decent folk? There's no patriotism, that's what it is. And no matriotism, either." The warrant officer on Yossarian's left was unimpressed. "Who gives a shit?" he asked tiredly, and turned over on his side to go to sleep. The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him. He sent shudders of annoyance scampering up ticklish spines, and everybody fled from him - - everybody but the soldier in white, who had no choice. The soldier in white was encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze. He had two useless legs and two useless arms. He had been smuggled into the ward during the night, and the men had no idea he was among them until they awoke in the morning and saw the two strange legs hoisted from the hips, the two strange arms anchored up perpendicularly, all four limbs pinioned strangely in air by lead weights suspended darkly above him that never moved. Sewn into the bandages over the insides of both elbows were zippered lips through which he was fed clear fluid from a clear jar. A silent zinc pipe rose from the cement on his groin and was coupled to a slim rubber hose that carried waste from his kidneys and dripped it efficiently into a clear, stoppered jar on the floor. When the jar on the floor was full, the jar feeding his elbow was empty, and the two were simply switched quickly so that stuff could drip back into him. All they ever really saw of the soldier in white was a frayed black hole over his mouth. The soldier in white had been filed next to the Texan, and the Texan sat sideways on his own bed and talked to him throughout the morning, afternoon and evening in a pleasant, sympathetic drawl. The Texan never minded that he got no reply. Temperatures were taken twice a day in the ward. Early each morning and late each afternoon Nurse Cramer entered with a jar full of thermometers and worked her way up one side of the ward and down the other, distributing a thermometer to each patient. She managed the soldier in white by inserting a thermometer into the hole over his mouthand leaving it balanced there on the lower rim. When she returned to the man in the first bed, she took his thermometer and recorded his temperature, and then moved on to the next bed and continued around the ward again. One afternoon when she had completed her first circuit of the ward and came a second time to the soldier in white, she read his temperature and discovered that he was dead. "Murderer," Dunbar said quietly. The Texan looked up at him with an uncertain grin. "Killer," Yossarian said. "What are you talkin' about?" the Texan asked nervously. "You murdered him," said Dunbar. "You killed him," said Yossarian. The Texan shrank back. "You fellas are crazy. I didnt even touch him." "You murdered him," said Dunbar. "I heard you kill him," said Yossarian. "You killed him because he was a nigger," Dunbar said. "You fellas are crazy," the Texan cried. "They don't allow niggers in here. They got a special place for niggers." "The sergeant smuggled him in," Dunbar said. "The Communist sergeant," said Yossarian. "And you knew it." The warrant officer on Yossarian's left was unimpressed by the entire incident of the soldier in white. The warrant officer was unimpressed by everything and never spoke at all unless it was to show irritation. The day before Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to one side of the kitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in Yossarian's ward, almost three hundred feet away, they could hear the roar of the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the orange-tinted windows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic half hour it was touch and go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the monotonous old drone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had to roll up their hoses and speed back to the field in case one of the planes crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was down, the firemen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to resume their fight with the fire at the hospital. When they got there, the blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even an ember to be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen to do but drink tepid coffee and hang around trying to screw the nurses. The chaplain arrived the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words from the letters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked him how he was feeling. He had placed himself a bit to one side, and the captain's bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian could see. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that he was either another doctor or another madman. "Oh, pretty good," he answered. "I've got a slight pain in my liver and I haven't been the most regular of fellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty good." "That's good," said the chaplain. "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is good." "I meant to come around sooner," the chaplain said, "but I really haven't been well." "That's too bad," Yossarian said. "Just a head cold," the chaplain added quickly. "I've got a fever of a hundred and one," Yossarian added just as quickly. "That's too bad," said the chaplain. "Yes," Yossarian agreed. "Yes, that is too bad." The chaplain fidgeted. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked after a while. "No, no." Yossarian sighed. "The doctors are doing all that's humanly possible, I suppose." "No, no." The chaplain colored faintly. "I didn't mean anything like that. I meant cigarettes...or books...or...toys." "No, no," Yossarian said. "Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose - - everything but good health." "That's too bad." "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is too bad." The chaplain stirred again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He drew a deep breath. "Lieutenant Nately sends his regards," he said. Yossarian was sorry to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their conversation after all. "You know Lieutenant Nately?" he asked regretfully. "Yes, I know Lieutenant Nately quite well." "He's a bit loony, isn't he?" The chaplain's smile was embarrassed. "I'm afraid I couldn't say. I don't think I know him that well." "You can take my word for it," Yossarian said. "He's as goofy as they come." The chaplain weighed the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. "You are Captain Yossarian, aren't you?" "Nately had a bad start. He came from a good family." "Please excuse me," the chaplain persisted timorously. "I may be committing a very grave error. Are you Captain Yossarian?" "Yes," Captain Yossarian confessed. "I am Captain Yossarian." "Of the 256th Squadron?" "Of the fighting 256th Squadron," Yossarian replied. "I didn't know there were any other Captain Yossarians. As far as I know, I'm the only Captain Yossarian I know, but that's only as far as I know." "I see," the chaplain said unhappily"That's two to the fighting eighth power, " Yossarian pointed out, "if you're thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron." "No," mumbled the chaplain. "I'm not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron." Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain's collar. He was thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before. "You're a chaplain," he exclaimed ecstatically. "I didn't know you were a chaplain." "Why, yes," the chaplain answered. "Didn't you know I was a chaplain?" "Why, no. I didn't know you were a chaplain." Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated grin. "I've never really seen a chaplain before." The chaplain flushed again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two with tan hair and brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay in the basin of each cheek. Yossarian wanted to help him. "Can I do anything at all to help you?" the chaplain asked. Yossarian shook his head, still grinning. "No, I'm sorry. I have everything I need and I'm quite comfortable. In fact, I'm not even sick." "That's good." As soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into his mouth with a giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and disappointed him. "There are other men in the group I must visit," he apologized finally. "I'll come to see you again, probably tomorrow." "Please do that," Yossarian said. "I'll come only if you want me to," the chaplain said, lowering his head shyly. "I've noticed that I make many of the men uncomfortable." Yossarian glowed with affection. "I want you to," he said. "You won't make me uncomfortable." The chaplain beamed gratefully and then peered down at a slip of paper he had been concealing in his hand all the while. He counted along the beds in the ward, moving his lips, and then centered his attention dubiously on Dunbar. "May I inquire," he whispered softly, "if that is Lieutenant Dunbar?" "Yes," Yossarian answered loudly, "that is Lieutenant Dunbar." "Thank you," the chaplain whispered. "Thank you very much. I must visit with him. I must visit with every member of the group who is in the hospital." "Even those in the other wards?" Yossarian asked. "Even those in the other wards." "Be careful in those other wards, Father," Yossarian warned. "That's where they keep the mental cases. They're filled with lunatics." "It isn't necessary to call me Father," the chaplain explained. "I'm an Anabaptist." "I'm dead serious about those other wards," Yossarian continued grimly. "M.P.s won't protect you, because they're craziest of all. I'd go with you myself, but I'm scared stiff. Insanity is contagious. This is the only sane ward in the whole hospital. Everybody is crazy but us. This is probably the only sane ward in the whole world, for that matter." The chaplain rose quickly and edged away from Yossarian's bed, and then nodded with a conciliating smile and promised to conduct himself with appropriate caution. "And now I must visit with Lieutenant Dunbar," he said. Still he lingered, remorsefully. "How is Lieutenant Dunbar?" he asked at last. "As good as they go," Yossarian assured him. "A true prince. One of the finest, least dedicated men in the whole world." "I didn't mean that," the chaplain answered, whispering again. "Is he very sick?" "No, he isn't very sick. In fact, he isn't sick at all." "That's good." The chaplain sighed with relief. "Yes," Yossarian said. "Yes, that is good." "A chaplain," Dunbar said when the chaplain had visited him and gone. "Did you see that? A chaplain." "Wasn't he sweet?" said Yossarian. "Maybe they should give him three votes." "Who's they?" Dunbar demanded suspiciously. In a bed in the small private section at the end of the ward, always working ceaselessly behind the green plyboard partition, was the solemn middle-aged colonel who was visited every day by a gentle, sweet-faced woman with curly ash-blond hair who was not a nurse and not a Wac and not a Red Cross girl but who nevertheless appeared faithfully at the hospital in Pianosa each afternoon wearing pretty pastel summer dresses that were very smart and white leather pumps with heels half high at the base of nylon seams that were inevitably straight. The colonel was in Communications, and he was kept busy day and night transmitting glutinous messages from the interior into square pads of gauze which he sealed meticulously and delivered to a covered white pail that stood on the night table beside his bed. The colonel was gorgeous. He had a cavernous mouth, cavernous cheeks, cavernous, sad, mildewed eyes. His face was the color of clouded silver. He coughed quietly, gingerly, and dabbed the pads slowly at his lips with a distaste that had become automatic. The colonel dwelt in a vortex of specialists who were still specializing in trying to determine what was troubling him. They hurled lights in his eyes to see if he could see, rammed needles into nerves to hear if he could feel. There was a urologist for his urine, a lymphologist for his lymph, an endocrinologist for his endocrines, a psychologist for his psyche, a dermatologist for his derma; there was a pathologist for his pathos, a cystologist for his cysts, and a bald and pedantic cetologist from the zoology department at Harvard who had been shanghaied ruthlessly into the Medical Corps by a faulty anode in an I.B.M. machine and spent his sessions with the dying colonel trying to discuss Moby Dick with him. The colonel had really been investigated. There was not an organ of his body that had not been drugged and derogated, dusted and dredged, fingered and photographed, removed, plundered and replaced. Neat, slender and erect, the woman touched him often as she sat by his bedside and was the epitome of stately sorrow each time she smiled. The colonel was tall, thin and stooped. When he rose to walk, he bent forward even more, making a deep cavity of his body, and placed his feet down very carefully, moving ahead by inches from the knees down. There were violet pools under his eyes.The woman spoke softly, softer even than the colonel coughed, and none of the men in the ward ever heard her voice. In less than ten days the Texan cleared the ward. The artillery captain broke first, and after that the exodus started. Dunbar, Yossarian and the fighter captain all bolted the same morning. Dunbar stopped having dizzy spells, and the fighter captain blew his nose. Yossarian told the doctors that the pain in his liver had gone away. It was as easy as that. Even the warrant officer fled. In less than ten days, the Texan drove everybody in the ward back to duty - - everybody but the C.I.D. man, who had caught cold from the fighter captain and come down with pneumonia.
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