"I would remind you that at our age, love seldom makes it through the second weekend."
"And I'm also attracted to a shapely Australian blonde who shares her apartment, a friend named Angela Moorecock."
"I might fall in love with that one myself," ventured Patrick. "That's really her name? Moorecock?"
"Moore."
"I thought you said Moorecock."
"I said Moore, Peter."
"He did say Moorecock," said Frances, reproachfully. "And I would also accuse you of ruthlessly exploiting innocent young working girls for degenerate sexual purposes."
"She isn't innocent and she isn't so young."
"Then you might as well take up with one of our widows or divorcees. They can be manipulated but never exploited. They have lawyers and financial advisers who won't allow them to be misused by anyone but themselves."
Patrick made a face. "John, how did she talk before she went on the stage?"
"Like I do now. Some people would say you were lucky, Patrick, to be married to a woman who speaks always in epigrams."
"And gets us talking that way too."
"I find that divine."
"Oh, shit, darling," said Patrick.
"That's an obscenity, my sweet, that John would never use with both of us."
"He speaks dirty to me."
"To me too. But never to both of us."
He glanced with surprise at Yossarian. "Is that true?"
"You can bet your sweet ass," said Yossarian, laughing.
"You'll find out what you can? About our wedding at the bus terminal?"
"I'm on my way."
There were no cabs outside the hotel. Down the block was the Frank Campbell Funeral Home, a redoubtable mortuary catering to many of the city's perished notables. Two men out front, one in the sober attire of an employee, the other plebeian in appearance with a knapsack and a hiking pole, were rasping at each other in muted disagreement, but neither gave him a look as he lifted an arm and caught his taxi there.
8
Time
The structure housing the M & M offices, to which Yossarian would be going later that same day, was an edifice of secondary size in the Japanese real estate complex now known as Rockefeller Center. Formerly, it was the old Time-Life Building and the headquarters of the publishing company Time Incorporated, the company for which, in that same building long before, Sammy Singer had gone to work as an advertising-promotion writer shortly after giving up a teaching position in Pennsylvania rather than sign a state loyalty oath to keep a job paying just thirty-two hundred dollars a year, and where he met the woman who five years later would become his wife. Glenda was a year older than Sammy, which would have disqualified her with his mother, had his mother been still alive, and was not Jewish, which might have unsettled her even more.
And she was divorced. Glenda had three young children, one of whom, sadly, was fated to evolve into a borderline schizophrenic of weak will with an attraction to drugs and an incipient bent toward suicide, the other two surviving, it developed eventually, with potential traits marking them especially high risks for neo-plastic disorders. Sammy's only regret about the long marriage was its tragic and unexpected termination. Sammy had no strong opinions about loyalty oaths but a passionate dislike for the people advocating them. It was much the same with the Korean War and the Vietnam War: he had no profound convictions either way but developed a hostile revulsion for demagogues in both political parties who demanded threateningly that he believe as they did. He disliked Harry Truman after reveling in his victorious campaign in 1948 and did not care afterward for Eisenhower and Nixon. He cared no more for Kennedy than he had for Eisenhower and ceased voting in presidential elections. Soon he stopped voting altogether and felt smug on election days. Glenda had stopped voting years before he met her and found all campaigning candidates for public office vulgar, boring, and loathsome.
At Time magazine his starting salary was nine thousand dollars annually, just about
"And I'm also attracted to a shapely Australian blonde who shares her apartment, a friend named Angela Moorecock."
"I might fall in love with that one myself," ventured Patrick. "That's really her name? Moorecock?"
"Moore."
"I thought you said Moorecock."
"I said Moore, Peter."
"He did say Moorecock," said Frances, reproachfully. "And I would also accuse you of ruthlessly exploiting innocent young working girls for degenerate sexual purposes."
"She isn't innocent and she isn't so young."
"Then you might as well take up with one of our widows or divorcees. They can be manipulated but never exploited. They have lawyers and financial advisers who won't allow them to be misused by anyone but themselves."
Patrick made a face. "John, how did she talk before she went on the stage?"
"Like I do now. Some people would say you were lucky, Patrick, to be married to a woman who speaks always in epigrams."
"And gets us talking that way too."
"I find that divine."
"Oh, shit, darling," said Patrick.
"That's an obscenity, my sweet, that John would never use with both of us."
"He speaks dirty to me."
"To me too. But never to both of us."
He glanced with surprise at Yossarian. "Is that true?"
"You can bet your sweet ass," said Yossarian, laughing.
"You'll find out what you can? About our wedding at the bus terminal?"
"I'm on my way."
There were no cabs outside the hotel. Down the block was the Frank Campbell Funeral Home, a redoubtable mortuary catering to many of the city's perished notables. Two men out front, one in the sober attire of an employee, the other plebeian in appearance with a knapsack and a hiking pole, were rasping at each other in muted disagreement, but neither gave him a look as he lifted an arm and caught his taxi there.
8
Time
The structure housing the M & M offices, to which Yossarian would be going later that same day, was an edifice of secondary size in the Japanese real estate complex now known as Rockefeller Center. Formerly, it was the old Time-Life Building and the headquarters of the publishing company Time Incorporated, the company for which, in that same building long before, Sammy Singer had gone to work as an advertising-promotion writer shortly after giving up a teaching position in Pennsylvania rather than sign a state loyalty oath to keep a job paying just thirty-two hundred dollars a year, and where he met the woman who five years later would become his wife. Glenda was a year older than Sammy, which would have disqualified her with his mother, had his mother been still alive, and was not Jewish, which might have unsettled her even more.
And she was divorced. Glenda had three young children, one of whom, sadly, was fated to evolve into a borderline schizophrenic of weak will with an attraction to drugs and an incipient bent toward suicide, the other two surviving, it developed eventually, with potential traits marking them especially high risks for neo-plastic disorders. Sammy's only regret about the long marriage was its tragic and unexpected termination. Sammy had no strong opinions about loyalty oaths but a passionate dislike for the people advocating them. It was much the same with the Korean War and the Vietnam War: he had no profound convictions either way but developed a hostile revulsion for demagogues in both political parties who demanded threateningly that he believe as they did. He disliked Harry Truman after reveling in his victorious campaign in 1948 and did not care afterward for Eisenhower and Nixon. He cared no more for Kennedy than he had for Eisenhower and ceased voting in presidential elections. Soon he stopped voting altogether and felt smug on election days. Glenda had stopped voting years before he met her and found all campaigning candidates for public office vulgar, boring, and loathsome.
At Time magazine his starting salary was nine thousand dollars annually, just about
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