飄塵
試著告訴讀者，生活是多樣的。每一個活著的人，在多元化的人生時空裏， 扮演著某種角色，向著不同的方向展現著自己的千姿百態，書寫著與眾不同的生 命華章。
正文
一見鍾情。
初次相見，尤塞瑞恩狂戀上了隨軍牧師。
他因肝痛住了醫院，但無黃疸。正因為沒有黃疸，這才讓醫生們感到困惑不解。假如肝痛變成了黃疸，醫生們就能治；假如肝痛沒有轉成黃疸，而肝痛又消失了的話，醫生們就讓病人出院。可他隻是肝痛，至今也沒有黃疸，這讓醫生們感到困惑。
每天早晨，三位精力充沛，不苟言笑的男醫生來查房。盡管他們眼神不怎麽好，可個個嘴巴了得。隨同他們一起來的是一位同樣精力充沛、不苟言笑的護士，達克特。達克特是個討厭尤塞瑞恩的眾多護士中的一個。他們看了看掛在尤塞瑞恩病床床腳的病況記錄卡，不耐煩地問了問尤塞瑞恩肝痛的情況。聽尤塞瑞恩說一切照舊時，他們似乎很惱火。
“解大便了嗎？”那位上校軍醫問。
見他搖了搖頭，三個醫生互換了一下眼色。
“再給他服一粒藥。”
達克特護士用筆記下醫囑，四人朝下一張病床走去。病房的護士們都不喜歡尤塞瑞恩。其實，尤塞瑞恩的肝早就不疼了，但他就是不說，而那些醫生們也從未起過疑心。醫生們隻是猜疑尤塞瑞恩的大便早就通了，隻是他沒有告訴他們。
尤塞瑞恩住在醫院裏什麽都不缺。夥食還算過得去，一日三餐，頓頓都有人把飯端到他的病床上，而且還能吃到額外配給的鮮肉。下午天氣酷熱，他和其他病號還能喝到涼果汁或是涼巧克力牛奶。除了醫生和護士，從來就沒有什麽人來打擾過他。每天上午，他除了花上點時間刪改信件，之後便無所事事，整日裏閑躺在病床上消磨時光，倒亦清閑自在。他在醫院裏過得相當舒坦，而且要這麽住下去也挺容易，因為他的體溫一直在華氏一百零一度。跟鄧巴相比，他可是舒服多了。鄧巴為了拿那份人家端到他病床前的餐點，不得不一而再，再而三地將自己摔成個狗吃屎。
尤塞瑞恩拿定主意要在醫院裏呆下去， 直到戰爭結束。他寫信告訴每一位他認識的人，說他住院了。不過， 他從未提及自己為什麽住院。有一天，他心生妙計，寫信給每一位熟人，告訴他們，自己要去執行一項相當危險的飛行任務。“他們在征募誌願人員。任務很危險，但總得有人去幹、等我一完成任務回來，就給你去信。” 從那天起，他再也沒有給任何人寫過任何一封信。
病房裏每個當官的病員要刪改所有當兵的病員所寫的信件，士兵病員隻能呆在自己的病房裏。刪改信件實在枯燥得很。當尤塞瑞恩知道士兵病員的生活樂趣不比當官的強多少時，尤塞瑞恩感到大失所望。第一天下來，他便興味索然了。於是，他別出心裁地發明了種種遊戲， 為這單調的差事添些色彩。一天，他宣布要“處決”信裏所有的修飾語，這樣一來，凡經他審查過的信件，信裏的副詞和形容詞便統統不見了。第二天，他又向冠詞開戰。第三天，他的創意達到了更高點，把信裏的內容全給刪了，隻剩下了那些冠詞。他覺得這種刪改提高了信件的動力學和內線性張力，使每封信的內容更為一致。沒隔多久，他又塗掉了落款部分，正文則一字不動。一次，他刪去了一封信所有的內容，隻保留了上款“親愛的瑪麗”，並在信箋下方寫上：“我苦苦地思念著你。美國隨軍牧師A·T·塔普曼。”A·T·塔普曼是飛行大隊隨軍牧師的姓名。
當他再也想不出什麽花花腸子在信上搞鬼時，他便開始攻擊信封上的姓名和地址，仿佛自己是上帝， 隨手漫不經心地一揮，便抹去了所有的住宅和街道名稱，讓所有的大都市消失。院方規定審查官必須在自己刪改過的每一封信上署名。大多數信尤塞瑞恩看都沒看過。凡是自己沒看過的信，他便簽上自己的姓名；要是看過了的，他則寫上：“華盛頓·俄夫英”。後來這名字他寫得不耐煩了，便改用“俄夫英·華盛頓”。刪改信封一事引起了嚴重反響，在某些養尊處優的高層將領中間激起了一陣焦慮情緒。結果，刑事調查部派了一名工作人員扮成病人，混進了病房。軍官們都知道他是刑事調查部的人，因為他老是打聽一個名叫俄夫英或是華盛頓的軍官的下落，但是，一天下來，他就不願意再審查信件了。他覺得審查那些信件實在太無聊。
尤塞瑞恩住的病房挺不錯，這是他和鄧巴住過的最好的病房。跟他們同病房的是位戰鬥機上尉飛行員，二十四歲，蓄著稀稀拉拉的金黃色八字須。這家夥曾在隆冬時節執行飛行任務時被炮火擊中，飛機墜入了亞得裏亞海，但他竟安然無事，連感冒也沒染上。時下已是夏天，他的飛機沒讓人給擊落，反倒說自己得了流行性感冒。尤塞瑞恩右側的病床上的是一位患了瘧疾而被嚇得半死的上尉，這家夥屁股上被蚊子叮了一口，此刻正脈脈含情地趴在床上。尤塞瑞恩的對麵是鄧巴，中間隔著通道。緊挨鄧巴的是一名炮兵上尉，現在尤塞瑞恩再也不跟他下棋了。這家夥棋下得極好，每回跟他對弈總是趣味無窮，然而，正因為弈棋趣味無窮，反讓尤塞瑞恩有一種被棋愚弄的感覺，所以尤塞瑞恩後來就不再跟他下棋了。再過去便是那個來自德克薩斯州頗有教養的德克薩斯人，這家夥看上去很像電影明星，他頗有愛國心地認為，較之於無產者， 流浪漢、娼妓、罪犯、墮落分子、無神論者和粗鄙下流的人，有產者，亦即上等人，理應獲得更多的選票。
那天德克薩斯人被送進病房時，尤塞瑞恩正在刪改信件。天氣雖酷熱，倒也寧靜無事。暑熱沉沉地罩著屋頂，屋裏悶得透不出一絲氣來。鄧巴紋絲不動地仰躺在床上，兩眼似洋娃娃一般，直愣愣地盯著天花板。他在培養自己耐性，竭盡所能地苟延殘喘。鄧巴苟活的舉止，讓尤塞瑞恩以為他已經翹了辮子。德克薩斯人被安置在病房中央的一張床上。沒過多久，便開始發表高論。
鄧巴霍地坐起身，“讓你說中了，”他激奮得吼了起來。“確實是少了點什麽，我一直覺得少了樣什麽東西，這下我知道少了什麽。”他使勁一拳擊在手心裏。“缺少了愛國精神，”他斷言道。 “你說得沒錯，”
尤塞瑞恩也衝他大聲嚷嚷，“你說得沒錯，你說得沒錯、你說得沒錯。我們每個人都在不停地拚死拚活， 為了掙幾個熱狗、布魯克林玉米餅、媽媽蘋果餡餅。可有誰願意替上等人效力？又有誰願意替上等人賣命拉選票？沒有愛國精神，也無愛國心。”
尤塞瑞恩左邊床上的那位準尉卻無動於衷。“哪個在胡說八道？”他不耐煩地問嘟囔了一句，翻過身，繼續睡他的覺。
德克薩斯人起初倒是顯得性情溫和、豪爽，招人喜愛。然而三天過後，就再也沒人再能容忍他了。
他惹人討厭，使人渾身癢癢不舒服，所以，除了那個全身素裹的士兵，大家全都躲著他。因為那個士兵根本無法動彈，他混身上下裹著石膏和紗布，兩隻胳膊和兩條腿都廢了。他是在夜裏被人偷偷抬進病房裏的。人們一早醒來才發現病房裏多了他這麽個人。 人們看見他古怪的雙腿從髖部被懸掛起來，古怪的 雙臂被成直角地吊了起來。黑沉沉的鉛陀穩掛在他的上方， 四肢被那鉛陀借重力古怪地懸吊在半空中。他的左右胳膊肘內側的繃帶處各縫進了一條拉鏈的口子，純淨的液體從一隻透明的瓶子經由此處流進他的體內。一節鋅管從他腹股溝處的石膏處無聲地伸出，管子接著一根細長的橡皮管，橡皮管將腎排泄物點滴不漏地排入地上的一隻透明的封口瓶內。等到地上的瓶子滴滿了，胳膊肘內側的輸液瓶空了，這兩隻瓶子就會立刻被上下調過個，液體便重新流入他的體內。這個素裹著的士兵渾身上下隻有一處是人們能看得到的，那就是嘴巴上方那個皮開肉綻的黑洞。
全身素裹的士兵被安頓在緊挨著德克薩斯人的一張病床上。從早到晚，德克薩斯人都會側身坐在自己的床上，興致勃勃又滿腔伶憫地對那士兵說個不停。那個士兵對他沒有反應，德克薩斯人也覺得無所謂。
病房裏每天測量兩次體溫，一早一晚。護士克雷默端了滿滿一瓶體溫計來到病房，沿著病房兩側走一圈，挨個兒給病員分發體溫計。輪到那個全身素裹的士兵時，她也有自己的絕招──把體溫計塞進他嘴巴上的洞裏，讓它穩穩地擱在洞口的下沿。發完體溫計，她便回到第一張病床，取出病人口中的體溫計，記下體溫，然後再走向下一張床，依次再繞病房一周。一天下午，她在病房轉了一圈後，再次來到那個渾身白色的士兵病榻前，取出他的體溫計讀體溫時，發現那士兵竟然死掉了。
“殺人犯，”鄧巴輕聲說道。 德克薩斯人抬頭望著他，疑惑地咧嘴笑了笑。
“凶手，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“你們倆在說什麽？”德克薩斯人緊張不安地問道。
“是你謀殺了他，”鄧巴說。
“是你把他殺死的，”尤塞瑞恩說。
德克薩斯人的身子往後縮了縮。“你們倆準是瘋了，我連碰也沒碰他一下。”
“是你謀殺了他，”鄧巴說。
“我聽說是你殺死他的，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“你殺了他，就因為他是黑人，”鄧巴說。
“你們倆準是瘋了，”德克薩斯人大聲叫道，“這兒是不準黑人住的，他們有專門安置黑人的地方。” “是那個中士偷偷送他進來的，”鄧巴說。
“那個共產黨中士，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“看來，這事你們倆早就知道了。”
尤塞瑞恩病床左邊的那個準尉對那個士兵的意外死亡的事無動於衷。他對什麽事都很冷漠，不管什麽事，隻要不惹到他頭上，他絕不會開口說一句話。
尤塞瑞恩遇見隨軍牧師的前一天，餐廳裏的一隻爐子爆炸，燒著了廚房的一側，強烈的熱浪迅速彌漫這個地方，甚至在三百英尺開外的尤塞瑞恩的病房，病人也能聽到火苗的咆哮聲和木頭燃燒時發出的尖銳的爆裂聲。滾滾濃煙掠過橘黃色的窗戶。大約過了一刻鍾，機場消防車趕到現場救火。經過半個小時緊張急速的行動，消防隊員開始控製住火勢。突然，空中傳來了一陣單調熟悉的的轟炸機執行完任務後返航的嗡嗡聲。消防隊員隻得收起水龍帶，火速返回機場，以防有飛機墜毀起火。轟炸機安全降落了，最後一架飛機剛一落地，消防隊員便立刻掉轉車頭，快速駛過山坡，趕回醫院繼續滅火。當他們趕到醫院，大火己熄滅了。那火是自己熄滅的，而且滅得很徹底，以至於沒留下一處餘燼需要用水來澆滅。失望的消防隊員無事可做，隻好喝口溫咖啡，四處轉悠轉悠，勾引勾引女護士們。
失火的第二天，隨軍牧師來到醫院，當時，尤塞瑞恩正忙著刪改信件。 他刪去了信中所有的內容，隻剩下那些卿卿我我的詞句。牧師在兩張病床中間的一把椅子上坐了下來，詢問尤塞瑞恩身體如何。他的身體微微向一側傾斜，尤塞瑞恩所能見到的唯一標誌是牧師襯衫肩章上的上尉軍銜，至於牧師是什麽人，他卻一無所知。於是便想當然地認為，他要麽是個醫生， 要麽就是個瘋子。
“哦，感覺挺好，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“隻是肝有點兒疼，所以我想我應該不很正常。不過，不管怎麽說，我必須承認，我感覺還好。”
“那就好，”牧師說。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，感覺還行。”
“我本想早點來的，”牧師說，“可是我的身體一直不怎麽好。”
“那實在是太糟糕了，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“我隻是得了感冒，”牧師馬上補充道。
“我一直在發燒，燒到華氏一百零一度。”尤塞瑞恩也連忙補上一句。
“那真糟糕，”牧師說。
“是啊！”尤塞瑞恩表示同意。
“沒錯，是糟透了。” 牧師有些不安。片刻後，他問道：“有什麽事需要我幫忙？”
“沒有，沒有，”尤塞瑞恩歎息道，“我想醫生們已經盡力了。”
“不，不。”牧師有些臉紅了。“我不是這個意思。我是指香煙啦…書啦…或者…玩具什麽的。”
“不，不，”尤塞瑞恩說，“謝謝你。我想我要的東西都有了，缺的隻是健康。”
“真是糟透了。”
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，是糟透了。”
牧師又不安起來，左顧右盼了好幾回，然後抬頭凝視天花板，接著又垂目盯著地上出神。他深吸了一口氣。
“內特利上尉托我向你問好，”他說。
尤塞瑞恩聽說內特利上尉也是他的朋友，心裏很是過意不去。看來，他倆的談話最終有了一個基礎。
"你認識內特利上尉？”他遺憾地問道。
“認識，我跟他很熟，”“他有些瘋瘋癲癲的，對不對？”
牧師笑了，他笑得很尷尬。“恐怕這我可不能說，我想我跟他還沒那麽熟。”
“你盡可相信我的話，”尤塞瑞恩說，“他的確有些瘋瘋癲癲的。”
牧師沉默了片刻後，突然打破沉默，突兀地問道：“你就是尤塞瑞恩上尉，對吧？”
“內特利開始並不順，因為他的家庭背景很好。”
“請原諒，”牧師膽怯地追問道，“我或許犯了個大錯。你是尤塞瑞恩上尉嗎？”
“沒錯，”尤塞瑞恩坦白地說，“我是尤塞瑞恩上尉。”
“二五六中隊的？”
“是戰時二五六中隊的，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我不知道這兒還有別的什麽人也叫尤塞瑞恩上尉。據我所知，我是唯一的尤塞瑞恩上尉，不過這隻是就我自己所知。”
“我明白了，”牧師說，顯得有些不怎麽高興。
“如果你想替我們中隊寫一首象征性詩歌的話，”尤塞瑞恩指出，“那就是二的戰鬥的八次方。”
“不，”牧師低聲道，“我沒打算給你們中隊寫什麽象征性詩歌。”
尤塞瑞恩猛地挺直身子。他瞅見牧師襯衫領子的另一邊有一枚小小的銀十字架。他很驚訝，因為以前他從未跟一位隨軍牧師談過話。
“原來你是個隨軍牧師，”他興奮得大聲叫了起來，“我不知道你是個隨軍牧師。”
“呃，沒錯，我是個牧師，”牧師答道，“難道你真的不知道？”
“呃，不，我真的不知道你是個隨軍牧師。”尤塞瑞恩目不轉睛地看著牧師，咧大了嘴，一副入迷的樣子。
“我以前還真沒見過隨軍牧師呢。” 牧師的臉又紅了，垂目注視著自己的雙手。他約摸有三十二歲，個子瘦小，黃褐色頭發，有一雙缺乏自信的，棕色的眼睛。他那狹長的臉很蒼白，麵頰兩側的瘦削處滿是昔日長青春痘所留下的瘢痕。 尤塞瑞恩很想幫他忙。
“要我幫什麽忙嗎？”倒是牧師先開口問了起來。
尤塞瑞恩搖了搖頭，還是咧著嘴笑。“不用，很抱歉，我想要的東西都有了，我在這兒過得很舒服。說實在的，我也沒什麽病。”
“那很好嘛。”牧師話一出口就覺得懊悔，連忙把指節塞進嘴裏，惶惶然地傻笑起來，可是尤塞瑞恩依舊緘口不語，甚是令他失望。 “我還得去探望飛行大隊的其他人，”末了，他語帶歉意地說，“我會再來看你的，也許明天吧。”
“請你一定要來，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“隻要你真想見我，我就來,”牧師低下頭，很是羞怯地說,“我發現我的出現讓許多人感到不自在。” 尤塞瑞恩充滿同情地說：“我想見你，你不會讓我感到不自在。”
牧師感激地喜不自勝，他垂目凝視著一直捏在手裏的那張紙條。他不出聲地數著病房裏的床位，疑惑地將注意力集中在了鄧巴身上。
“請問一下，”他輕聲說，“那位是鄧巴中尉嗎？”
“沒錯，”尤塞瑞恩高聲回答，“那是鄧巴中尉。” “謝謝你，”牧師輕聲說，“多謝了。我必須去看看鄧巴，我必須去看看飛行大隊所有住院的人。”
“住在別的病房裏的也要看嗎？”尤塞瑞恩問。 “是的。”
“去那些病房你可得多留點神，神父，”尤塞瑞恩提醒他說，“那兒關的可全是精神病病人，盡是些瘋子。”
“你不必叫我神父，”牧師解釋道，“我是個激進浸禮會派的教徒。”
“那些病房的事我可是巨認真的，”尤塞瑞恩表情嚴肅地說，“憲兵保護不了你，因為那些人瘋到了極點。我本該陪你一塊兒去，可我怕極了。精神病可是傳染的。我這個病房是整個醫院裏唯一沒有精神病的地方。除了我們這些人，其他的人，個個都是瘋子。也就是說，全世界或許隻有我這個病房住的是神智健全的人。”
牧師迅速地站起身來，側身離開尤塞瑞恩的病床，微笑地點了點頭，要他放心，並答應他自己一定會謹慎行事。“我該去看鄧巴中尉了，”他說著，有點依依不舍。最後，他問道：“鄧巴中尉他人怎麽樣？”
“沒說的，”尤塞瑞恩滿有把握地說，“一個真正的貴族， 這個世界上最好的,最無獻身精神的人。”
“那不是我要問的，”牧師說罷，又小聲問道，“他病得厲害嗎？”
“不，不厲害。說實在的，他壓根兒就沒病。”
“那就好。”牧師如釋重負地鬆了口氣。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，很好。”
“隨軍牧師，” 就在牧師見過鄧巴並從病房離開時，鄧巴說：“你看見了嗎？隨軍牧師”。
“他很甜是不是！”尤塞瑞恩說，“也許他們該投他三票。”
“他們是誰？”鄧巴疑惑不解地問。
病房的盡頭，在一個用綠色三合板隔了起來的小小的隱私區裏，擱了張床鋪。床鋪的主人則是位終日板著一張臉的中年上校， 他老是在床上忙個不停。有個女人每天都來探望他，這女人看上去很溫柔，長得很甜，金灰色的卷發。她既不是護士，又不是陸軍婦女隊隊員，更不是紅十字會的女職員。不過每天下午，她必來皮亞諾薩島上的這所醫院。她身穿色彩柔和淡雅且又時髦考究的夏裝，腳穿一雙半高跟白皮鞋，腿上穿的筆直的尼龍長襪。上校在通訊，晝夜忙碌不停地把內部的一連串消息傳送到方形的紗布墊裏，他細心封好紗布墊，把它們放入床邊的床頭櫃上的一隻有蓋的白桶內。上校氣度不凡，嘴巴寬大，兩頰凹陷，雙眼深陷，目光陰鬱，似發了黴一般，臉色灰白。他每次咳起嗽時，總是很平靜，小心翼翼，用紗布墊慢慢地拍著自己的嘴唇，不由自主地露出厭惡的神態。
上校老是被一大群專家圍著。這些專家試著確診他的病情。他們用光照他的眼睛，檢測他是否看得見，用針紮他的神經，看他是否有感覺。這些專家中有泌尿學家查他的尿、淋巴學家查他的淋巴、內分泌學家查他的內分泌、心理學家查他的心理、皮膚學家查他的皮膚、病理學家查他的病理、囊腫學家查他的囊腫。此外，還有一位哈佛大學動物學係的鯨類學家，此人是個禿頂，一臉迂腐，因IBM公司一台機器的陽極出了毛病，被人無情地劫持到這個衛生隊來，陪伴這位垂死的上校，試著跟他探討《白鯨》這部小說。
上校還真的接受了全麵檢查。他身上沒有一個器官沒被上過藥，動過刀，塗過藥粉，清洗過，用手擺弄過， 拍過照，挪動過，取出過，替換過。那個衣著整潔、身材修長挺秀氣的女人則常坐在床邊撫摸著他。每次微笑時，她的神情裏總帶著一種端莊的憂傷。上校身材瘦長，有些駝背，起身走路時，背駝得更是厲害，身體屈成一個拱形。他挪步時異常小心，屈膝一寸寸地緩慢前移。他的兩眼下眼圈呈紫黑色。那女人說話很輕，甚至比上校的咳嗽聲還要輕，病房裏的人誰亦不曾聽見她的聲音。 不到十天，德克薩斯人便把所有病人清理出了病房。最先離開病房的是那位炮兵上尉，隨後，大批病員相繼逃離。鄧巴、尤塞瑞恩和駕駛戰鬥機的上尉飛行員是同一天上午逃出病房的。鄧巴的頭不暈了，上尉飛行員鼻子通氣了，尤塞瑞恩則告訴醫生們，他的肝不痛了。這病好得還真快，就連那位準尉也逃之夭夭了。十天之內，德克薩斯人就把病房裏所有的病員趕回了各自的崗位，隻有刑事調查部的那個人留了下來──他從上尉飛行員那兒染上了感冒，後來竟轉成了肺炎。
章節概要以及注釋 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.
故事發生在二戰後期，一開始，尤塞瑞恩因肝痛住進了皮亞諾薩島上的飛行大隊的 醫院。醫生們不知道他究竟得的是什麽病。尤塞瑞恩很樂意住在醫院裏。一日三餐， 頓頓都有人把飯端到他的病床上，比在軍營裏要好。 尤塞瑞恩寫信給他的親朋好友， 告訴他們，自己在執行一項相當危險的飛行任務。然後，就再也沒有給他們寫過信。 在醫院裏。尤塞瑞恩的一個的差事是刪改所有當兵的病員的信件。刪改信件很枯燥， 於是，他別出心裁地發明了種種刪改信件的遊戲， 為自己找樂趣，並在信箋下方簽 上了飛行大隊隨軍牧師A·T·塔普曼的姓名。刑事調查部派了一名工作人員調查是 誰刪改了信件。鄧巴也住了院。還有個來自德克薩斯州頗有教養的德克薩斯人，尤 塞瑞恩和鄧巴都不喜歡他。病房裏還有個“全身素裹的士兵”，從頭到腳裹著石膏 和紗布，後來那士兵死掉了。尤塞瑞恩和鄧巴指控是德克薩斯人謀殺了那個士兵。 醫院失火了，隨軍牧師來看望尤塞瑞恩， 他很關心尤塞瑞恩的病情。尤塞瑞恩向牧 師承認自己其實沒什麽病。尤塞瑞恩和鄧巴聲稱自己的病好了， 為了躲開德克薩斯 人，便出了院。不過，刑事調查部的那個人卻因肺炎留住入院了。作者在第一章裏 介紹了尤塞瑞恩，隨軍牧師塔普曼，“全身素裹的士兵”，鄧巴，和德克薩斯人。
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."
注釋 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.
生詞 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.
初次相見，尤塞瑞恩狂戀上了隨軍牧師。
他因肝痛住了醫院，但無黃疸。正因為沒有黃疸，這才讓醫生們感到困惑不解。假如肝痛變成了黃疸，醫生們就能治；假如肝痛沒有轉成黃疸，而肝痛又消失了的話，醫生們就讓病人出院。可他隻是肝痛，至今也沒有黃疸，這讓醫生們感到困惑。
每天早晨，三位精力充沛，不苟言笑的男醫生來查房。盡管他們眼神不怎麽好，可個個嘴巴了得。隨同他們一起來的是一位同樣精力充沛、不苟言笑的護士，達克特。達克特是個討厭尤塞瑞恩的眾多護士中的一個。他們看了看掛在尤塞瑞恩病床床腳的病況記錄卡，不耐煩地問了問尤塞瑞恩肝痛的情況。聽尤塞瑞恩說一切照舊時，他們似乎很惱火。
“解大便了嗎？”那位上校軍醫問。
見他搖了搖頭，三個醫生互換了一下眼色。
“再給他服一粒藥。”
達克特護士用筆記下醫囑，四人朝下一張病床走去。病房的護士們都不喜歡尤塞瑞恩。其實，尤塞瑞恩的肝早就不疼了，但他就是不說，而那些醫生們也從未起過疑心。醫生們隻是猜疑尤塞瑞恩的大便早就通了，隻是他沒有告訴他們。
尤塞瑞恩住在醫院裏什麽都不缺。夥食還算過得去，一日三餐，頓頓都有人把飯端到他的病床上，而且還能吃到額外配給的鮮肉。下午天氣酷熱，他和其他病號還能喝到涼果汁或是涼巧克力牛奶。除了醫生和護士，從來就沒有什麽人來打擾過他。每天上午，他除了花上點時間刪改信件，之後便無所事事，整日裏閑躺在病床上消磨時光，倒亦清閑自在。他在醫院裏過得相當舒坦，而且要這麽住下去也挺容易，因為他的體溫一直在華氏一百零一度。跟鄧巴相比，他可是舒服多了。鄧巴為了拿那份人家端到他病床前的餐點，不得不一而再，再而三地將自己摔成個狗吃屎。
尤塞瑞恩拿定主意要在醫院裏呆下去， 直到戰爭結束。他寫信告訴每一位他認識的人，說他住院了。不過， 他從未提及自己為什麽住院。有一天，他心生妙計，寫信給每一位熟人，告訴他們，自己要去執行一項相當危險的飛行任務。“他們在征募誌願人員。任務很危險，但總得有人去幹、等我一完成任務回來，就給你去信。” 從那天起，他再也沒有給任何人寫過任何一封信。
病房裏每個當官的病員要刪改所有當兵的病員所寫的信件，士兵病員隻能呆在自己的病房裏。刪改信件實在枯燥得很。當尤塞瑞恩知道士兵病員的生活樂趣不比當官的強多少時，尤塞瑞恩感到大失所望。第一天下來，他便興味索然了。於是，他別出心裁地發明了種種遊戲， 為這單調的差事添些色彩。一天，他宣布要“處決”信裏所有的修飾語，這樣一來，凡經他審查過的信件，信裏的副詞和形容詞便統統不見了。第二天，他又向冠詞開戰。第三天，他的創意達到了更高點，把信裏的內容全給刪了，隻剩下了那些冠詞。他覺得這種刪改提高了信件的動力學和內線性張力，使每封信的內容更為一致。沒隔多久，他又塗掉了落款部分，正文則一字不動。一次，他刪去了一封信所有的內容，隻保留了上款“親愛的瑪麗”，並在信箋下方寫上：“我苦苦地思念著你。美國隨軍牧師A·T·塔普曼。”A·T·塔普曼是飛行大隊隨軍牧師的姓名。
當他再也想不出什麽花花腸子在信上搞鬼時，他便開始攻擊信封上的姓名和地址，仿佛自己是上帝， 隨手漫不經心地一揮，便抹去了所有的住宅和街道名稱，讓所有的大都市消失。院方規定審查官必須在自己刪改過的每一封信上署名。大多數信尤塞瑞恩看都沒看過。凡是自己沒看過的信，他便簽上自己的姓名；要是看過了的，他則寫上：“華盛頓·俄夫英”。後來這名字他寫得不耐煩了，便改用“俄夫英·華盛頓”。刪改信封一事引起了嚴重反響，在某些養尊處優的高層將領中間激起了一陣焦慮情緒。結果，刑事調查部派了一名工作人員扮成病人，混進了病房。軍官們都知道他是刑事調查部的人，因為他老是打聽一個名叫俄夫英或是華盛頓的軍官的下落，但是，一天下來，他就不願意再審查信件了。他覺得審查那些信件實在太無聊。
尤塞瑞恩住的病房挺不錯，這是他和鄧巴住過的最好的病房。跟他們同病房的是位戰鬥機上尉飛行員，二十四歲，蓄著稀稀拉拉的金黃色八字須。這家夥曾在隆冬時節執行飛行任務時被炮火擊中，飛機墜入了亞得裏亞海，但他竟安然無事，連感冒也沒染上。時下已是夏天，他的飛機沒讓人給擊落，反倒說自己得了流行性感冒。尤塞瑞恩右側的病床上的是一位患了瘧疾而被嚇得半死的上尉，這家夥屁股上被蚊子叮了一口，此刻正脈脈含情地趴在床上。尤塞瑞恩的對麵是鄧巴，中間隔著通道。緊挨鄧巴的是一名炮兵上尉，現在尤塞瑞恩再也不跟他下棋了。這家夥棋下得極好，每回跟他對弈總是趣味無窮，然而，正因為弈棋趣味無窮，反讓尤塞瑞恩有一種被棋愚弄的感覺，所以尤塞瑞恩後來就不再跟他下棋了。再過去便是那個來自德克薩斯州頗有教養的德克薩斯人，這家夥看上去很像電影明星，他頗有愛國心地認為，較之於無產者， 流浪漢、娼妓、罪犯、墮落分子、無神論者和粗鄙下流的人，有產者，亦即上等人，理應獲得更多的選票。
那天德克薩斯人被送進病房時，尤塞瑞恩正在刪改信件。天氣雖酷熱，倒也寧靜無事。暑熱沉沉地罩著屋頂，屋裏悶得透不出一絲氣來。鄧巴紋絲不動地仰躺在床上，兩眼似洋娃娃一般，直愣愣地盯著天花板。他在培養自己耐性，竭盡所能地苟延殘喘。鄧巴苟活的舉止，讓尤塞瑞恩以為他已經翹了辮子。德克薩斯人被安置在病房中央的一張床上。沒過多久，便開始發表高論。
鄧巴霍地坐起身，“讓你說中了，”他激奮得吼了起來。“確實是少了點什麽，我一直覺得少了樣什麽東西，這下我知道少了什麽。”他使勁一拳擊在手心裏。“缺少了愛國精神，”他斷言道。 “你說得沒錯，”
尤塞瑞恩也衝他大聲嚷嚷，“你說得沒錯，你說得沒錯、你說得沒錯。我們每個人都在不停地拚死拚活， 為了掙幾個熱狗、布魯克林玉米餅、媽媽蘋果餡餅。可有誰願意替上等人效力？又有誰願意替上等人賣命拉選票？沒有愛國精神，也無愛國心。”
尤塞瑞恩左邊床上的那位準尉卻無動於衷。“哪個在胡說八道？”他不耐煩地問嘟囔了一句，翻過身，繼續睡他的覺。
德克薩斯人起初倒是顯得性情溫和、豪爽，招人喜愛。然而三天過後，就再也沒人再能容忍他了。
他惹人討厭，使人渾身癢癢不舒服，所以，除了那個全身素裹的士兵，大家全都躲著他。因為那個士兵根本無法動彈，他混身上下裹著石膏和紗布，兩隻胳膊和兩條腿都廢了。他是在夜裏被人偷偷抬進病房裏的。人們一早醒來才發現病房裏多了他這麽個人。 人們看見他古怪的雙腿從髖部被懸掛起來，古怪的 雙臂被成直角地吊了起來。黑沉沉的鉛陀穩掛在他的上方， 四肢被那鉛陀借重力古怪地懸吊在半空中。他的左右胳膊肘內側的繃帶處各縫進了一條拉鏈的口子，純淨的液體從一隻透明的瓶子經由此處流進他的體內。一節鋅管從他腹股溝處的石膏處無聲地伸出，管子接著一根細長的橡皮管，橡皮管將腎排泄物點滴不漏地排入地上的一隻透明的封口瓶內。等到地上的瓶子滴滿了，胳膊肘內側的輸液瓶空了，這兩隻瓶子就會立刻被上下調過個，液體便重新流入他的體內。這個素裹著的士兵渾身上下隻有一處是人們能看得到的，那就是嘴巴上方那個皮開肉綻的黑洞。
全身素裹的士兵被安頓在緊挨著德克薩斯人的一張病床上。從早到晚，德克薩斯人都會側身坐在自己的床上，興致勃勃又滿腔伶憫地對那士兵說個不停。那個士兵對他沒有反應，德克薩斯人也覺得無所謂。
病房裏每天測量兩次體溫，一早一晚。護士克雷默端了滿滿一瓶體溫計來到病房，沿著病房兩側走一圈，挨個兒給病員分發體溫計。輪到那個全身素裹的士兵時，她也有自己的絕招──把體溫計塞進他嘴巴上的洞裏，讓它穩穩地擱在洞口的下沿。發完體溫計，她便回到第一張病床，取出病人口中的體溫計，記下體溫，然後再走向下一張床，依次再繞病房一周。一天下午，她在病房轉了一圈後，再次來到那個渾身白色的士兵病榻前，取出他的體溫計讀體溫時，發現那士兵竟然死掉了。
“殺人犯，”鄧巴輕聲說道。 德克薩斯人抬頭望著他，疑惑地咧嘴笑了笑。
“凶手，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“你們倆在說什麽？”德克薩斯人緊張不安地問道。
“是你謀殺了他，”鄧巴說。
“是你把他殺死的，”尤塞瑞恩說。
德克薩斯人的身子往後縮了縮。“你們倆準是瘋了，我連碰也沒碰他一下。”
“是你謀殺了他，”鄧巴說。
“我聽說是你殺死他的，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“你殺了他，就因為他是黑人，”鄧巴說。
“你們倆準是瘋了，”德克薩斯人大聲叫道，“這兒是不準黑人住的，他們有專門安置黑人的地方。” “是那個中士偷偷送他進來的，”鄧巴說。
“那個共產黨中士，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“看來，這事你們倆早就知道了。”
尤塞瑞恩病床左邊的那個準尉對那個士兵的意外死亡的事無動於衷。他對什麽事都很冷漠，不管什麽事，隻要不惹到他頭上，他絕不會開口說一句話。
尤塞瑞恩遇見隨軍牧師的前一天，餐廳裏的一隻爐子爆炸，燒著了廚房的一側，強烈的熱浪迅速彌漫這個地方，甚至在三百英尺開外的尤塞瑞恩的病房，病人也能聽到火苗的咆哮聲和木頭燃燒時發出的尖銳的爆裂聲。滾滾濃煙掠過橘黃色的窗戶。大約過了一刻鍾，機場消防車趕到現場救火。經過半個小時緊張急速的行動，消防隊員開始控製住火勢。突然，空中傳來了一陣單調熟悉的的轟炸機執行完任務後返航的嗡嗡聲。消防隊員隻得收起水龍帶，火速返回機場，以防有飛機墜毀起火。轟炸機安全降落了，最後一架飛機剛一落地，消防隊員便立刻掉轉車頭，快速駛過山坡，趕回醫院繼續滅火。當他們趕到醫院，大火己熄滅了。那火是自己熄滅的，而且滅得很徹底，以至於沒留下一處餘燼需要用水來澆滅。失望的消防隊員無事可做，隻好喝口溫咖啡，四處轉悠轉悠，勾引勾引女護士們。
失火的第二天，隨軍牧師來到醫院，當時，尤塞瑞恩正忙著刪改信件。 他刪去了信中所有的內容，隻剩下那些卿卿我我的詞句。牧師在兩張病床中間的一把椅子上坐了下來，詢問尤塞瑞恩身體如何。他的身體微微向一側傾斜，尤塞瑞恩所能見到的唯一標誌是牧師襯衫肩章上的上尉軍銜，至於牧師是什麽人，他卻一無所知。於是便想當然地認為，他要麽是個醫生， 要麽就是個瘋子。
“哦，感覺挺好，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“隻是肝有點兒疼，所以我想我應該不很正常。不過，不管怎麽說，我必須承認，我感覺還好。”
“那就好，”牧師說。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，感覺還行。”
“我本想早點來的，”牧師說，“可是我的身體一直不怎麽好。”
“那實在是太糟糕了，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“我隻是得了感冒，”牧師馬上補充道。
“我一直在發燒，燒到華氏一百零一度。”尤塞瑞恩也連忙補上一句。
“那真糟糕，”牧師說。
“是啊！”尤塞瑞恩表示同意。
“沒錯，是糟透了。” 牧師有些不安。片刻後，他問道：“有什麽事需要我幫忙？”
“沒有，沒有，”尤塞瑞恩歎息道，“我想醫生們已經盡力了。”
“不，不。”牧師有些臉紅了。“我不是這個意思。我是指香煙啦…書啦…或者…玩具什麽的。”
“不，不，”尤塞瑞恩說，“謝謝你。我想我要的東西都有了，缺的隻是健康。”
“真是糟透了。”
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，是糟透了。”
牧師又不安起來，左顧右盼了好幾回，然後抬頭凝視天花板，接著又垂目盯著地上出神。他深吸了一口氣。
“內特利上尉托我向你問好，”他說。
尤塞瑞恩聽說內特利上尉也是他的朋友，心裏很是過意不去。看來，他倆的談話最終有了一個基礎。
"你認識內特利上尉？”他遺憾地問道。
“認識，我跟他很熟，”“他有些瘋瘋癲癲的，對不對？”
牧師笑了，他笑得很尷尬。“恐怕這我可不能說，我想我跟他還沒那麽熟。”
“你盡可相信我的話，”尤塞瑞恩說，“他的確有些瘋瘋癲癲的。”
牧師沉默了片刻後，突然打破沉默，突兀地問道：“你就是尤塞瑞恩上尉，對吧？”
“內特利開始並不順，因為他的家庭背景很好。”
“請原諒，”牧師膽怯地追問道，“我或許犯了個大錯。你是尤塞瑞恩上尉嗎？”
“沒錯，”尤塞瑞恩坦白地說，“我是尤塞瑞恩上尉。”
“二五六中隊的？”
“是戰時二五六中隊的，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我不知道這兒還有別的什麽人也叫尤塞瑞恩上尉。據我所知，我是唯一的尤塞瑞恩上尉，不過這隻是就我自己所知。”
“我明白了，”牧師說，顯得有些不怎麽高興。
“如果你想替我們中隊寫一首象征性詩歌的話，”尤塞瑞恩指出，“那就是二的戰鬥的八次方。”
“不，”牧師低聲道，“我沒打算給你們中隊寫什麽象征性詩歌。”
尤塞瑞恩猛地挺直身子。他瞅見牧師襯衫領子的另一邊有一枚小小的銀十字架。他很驚訝，因為以前他從未跟一位隨軍牧師談過話。
“原來你是個隨軍牧師，”他興奮得大聲叫了起來，“我不知道你是個隨軍牧師。”
“呃，沒錯，我是個牧師，”牧師答道，“難道你真的不知道？”
“呃，不，我真的不知道你是個隨軍牧師。”尤塞瑞恩目不轉睛地看著牧師，咧大了嘴，一副入迷的樣子。
“我以前還真沒見過隨軍牧師呢。” 牧師的臉又紅了，垂目注視著自己的雙手。他約摸有三十二歲，個子瘦小，黃褐色頭發，有一雙缺乏自信的，棕色的眼睛。他那狹長的臉很蒼白，麵頰兩側的瘦削處滿是昔日長青春痘所留下的瘢痕。 尤塞瑞恩很想幫他忙。
“要我幫什麽忙嗎？”倒是牧師先開口問了起來。
尤塞瑞恩搖了搖頭，還是咧著嘴笑。“不用，很抱歉，我想要的東西都有了，我在這兒過得很舒服。說實在的，我也沒什麽病。”
“那很好嘛。”牧師話一出口就覺得懊悔，連忙把指節塞進嘴裏，惶惶然地傻笑起來，可是尤塞瑞恩依舊緘口不語，甚是令他失望。 “我還得去探望飛行大隊的其他人，”末了，他語帶歉意地說，“我會再來看你的，也許明天吧。”
“請你一定要來，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“隻要你真想見我，我就來,”牧師低下頭，很是羞怯地說,“我發現我的出現讓許多人感到不自在。” 尤塞瑞恩充滿同情地說：“我想見你，你不會讓我感到不自在。”
牧師感激地喜不自勝，他垂目凝視著一直捏在手裏的那張紙條。他不出聲地數著病房裏的床位，疑惑地將注意力集中在了鄧巴身上。
“請問一下，”他輕聲說，“那位是鄧巴中尉嗎？”
“沒錯，”尤塞瑞恩高聲回答，“那是鄧巴中尉。” “謝謝你，”牧師輕聲說，“多謝了。我必須去看看鄧巴，我必須去看看飛行大隊所有住院的人。”
“住在別的病房裏的也要看嗎？”尤塞瑞恩問。 “是的。”
“去那些病房你可得多留點神，神父，”尤塞瑞恩提醒他說，“那兒關的可全是精神病病人，盡是些瘋子。”
“你不必叫我神父，”牧師解釋道，“我是個激進浸禮會派的教徒。”
“那些病房的事我可是巨認真的，”尤塞瑞恩表情嚴肅地說，“憲兵保護不了你，因為那些人瘋到了極點。我本該陪你一塊兒去，可我怕極了。精神病可是傳染的。我這個病房是整個醫院裏唯一沒有精神病的地方。除了我們這些人，其他的人，個個都是瘋子。也就是說，全世界或許隻有我這個病房住的是神智健全的人。”
牧師迅速地站起身來，側身離開尤塞瑞恩的病床，微笑地點了點頭，要他放心，並答應他自己一定會謹慎行事。“我該去看鄧巴中尉了，”他說著，有點依依不舍。最後，他問道：“鄧巴中尉他人怎麽樣？”
“沒說的，”尤塞瑞恩滿有把握地說，“一個真正的貴族， 這個世界上最好的,最無獻身精神的人。”
“那不是我要問的，”牧師說罷，又小聲問道，“他病得厲害嗎？”
“不，不厲害。說實在的，他壓根兒就沒病。”
“那就好。”牧師如釋重負地鬆了口氣。
“是啊，”尤塞瑞恩說，“沒錯，很好。”
“隨軍牧師，” 就在牧師見過鄧巴並從病房離開時，鄧巴說：“你看見了嗎？隨軍牧師”。
“他很甜是不是！”尤塞瑞恩說，“也許他們該投他三票。”
“他們是誰？”鄧巴疑惑不解地問。
病房的盡頭，在一個用綠色三合板隔了起來的小小的隱私區裏，擱了張床鋪。床鋪的主人則是位終日板著一張臉的中年上校， 他老是在床上忙個不停。有個女人每天都來探望他，這女人看上去很溫柔，長得很甜，金灰色的卷發。她既不是護士，又不是陸軍婦女隊隊員，更不是紅十字會的女職員。不過每天下午，她必來皮亞諾薩島上的這所醫院。她身穿色彩柔和淡雅且又時髦考究的夏裝，腳穿一雙半高跟白皮鞋，腿上穿的筆直的尼龍長襪。上校在通訊，晝夜忙碌不停地把內部的一連串消息傳送到方形的紗布墊裏，他細心封好紗布墊，把它們放入床邊的床頭櫃上的一隻有蓋的白桶內。上校氣度不凡，嘴巴寬大，兩頰凹陷，雙眼深陷，目光陰鬱，似發了黴一般，臉色灰白。他每次咳起嗽時，總是很平靜，小心翼翼，用紗布墊慢慢地拍著自己的嘴唇，不由自主地露出厭惡的神態。
上校老是被一大群專家圍著。這些專家試著確診他的病情。他們用光照他的眼睛，檢測他是否看得見，用針紮他的神經，看他是否有感覺。這些專家中有泌尿學家查他的尿、淋巴學家查他的淋巴、內分泌學家查他的內分泌、心理學家查他的心理、皮膚學家查他的皮膚、病理學家查他的病理、囊腫學家查他的囊腫。此外，還有一位哈佛大學動物學係的鯨類學家，此人是個禿頂，一臉迂腐，因IBM公司一台機器的陽極出了毛病，被人無情地劫持到這個衛生隊來，陪伴這位垂死的上校，試著跟他探討《白鯨》這部小說。
上校還真的接受了全麵檢查。他身上沒有一個器官沒被上過藥，動過刀，塗過藥粉，清洗過，用手擺弄過， 拍過照，挪動過，取出過，替換過。那個衣著整潔、身材修長挺秀氣的女人則常坐在床邊撫摸著他。每次微笑時，她的神情裏總帶著一種端莊的憂傷。上校身材瘦長，有些駝背，起身走路時，背駝得更是厲害，身體屈成一個拱形。他挪步時異常小心，屈膝一寸寸地緩慢前移。他的兩眼下眼圈呈紫黑色。那女人說話很輕，甚至比上校的咳嗽聲還要輕，病房裏的人誰亦不曾聽見她的聲音。 不到十天，德克薩斯人便把所有病人清理出了病房。最先離開病房的是那位炮兵上尉，隨後，大批病員相繼逃離。鄧巴、尤塞瑞恩和駕駛戰鬥機的上尉飛行員是同一天上午逃出病房的。鄧巴的頭不暈了，上尉飛行員鼻子通氣了，尤塞瑞恩則告訴醫生們，他的肝不痛了。這病好得還真快，就連那位準尉也逃之夭夭了。十天之內，德克薩斯人就把病房裏所有的病員趕回了各自的崗位，隻有刑事調查部的那個人留了下來──他從上尉飛行員那兒染上了感冒，後來竟轉成了肺炎。
章節概要以及注釋 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.
故事發生在二戰後期，一開始，尤塞瑞恩因肝痛住進了皮亞諾薩島上的飛行大隊的 醫院。醫生們不知道他究竟得的是什麽病。尤塞瑞恩很樂意住在醫院裏。一日三餐， 頓頓都有人把飯端到他的病床上，比在軍營裏要好。 尤塞瑞恩寫信給他的親朋好友， 告訴他們，自己在執行一項相當危險的飛行任務。然後，就再也沒有給他們寫過信。 在醫院裏。尤塞瑞恩的一個的差事是刪改所有當兵的病員的信件。刪改信件很枯燥， 於是，他別出心裁地發明了種種刪改信件的遊戲， 為自己找樂趣，並在信箋下方簽 上了飛行大隊隨軍牧師A·T·塔普曼的姓名。刑事調查部派了一名工作人員調查是 誰刪改了信件。鄧巴也住了院。還有個來自德克薩斯州頗有教養的德克薩斯人，尤 塞瑞恩和鄧巴都不喜歡他。病房裏還有個“全身素裹的士兵”，從頭到腳裹著石膏 和紗布，後來那士兵死掉了。尤塞瑞恩和鄧巴指控是德克薩斯人謀殺了那個士兵。 醫院失火了，隨軍牧師來看望尤塞瑞恩， 他很關心尤塞瑞恩的病情。尤塞瑞恩向牧 師承認自己其實沒什麽病。尤塞瑞恩和鄧巴聲稱自己的病好了， 為了躲開德克薩斯 人，便出了院。不過，刑事調查部的那個人卻因肺炎留住入院了。作者在第一章裏 介紹了尤塞瑞恩，隨軍牧師塔普曼，“全身素裹的士兵”，鄧巴，和德克薩斯人。
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."
注釋 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.
生詞 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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