Yossarian decided to change the subject. “Now you’re changing the subject,” he pointed out diplomatically. “I’ll bet I can name two things to be miserable about for every one you can name to be thankful for.”
”Be thankful you’ve got me,” she insisted.
”I am, honey. But I’m also goddam good and miserable that I can’t have Dori Duz again, too. Or the hundreds of other girls and women I’ll see and want in my short lifetime and won’t be able to go to bed with even once.”
”Be thankful you’re healthy.”
”Be bitter you’re not going to stay that way.”
”Be glad you’re even alive.”
”Be furious you’re going to die.”
”Things could be much worse,” she cried.
”They could be one hell of a lot better,” he answered heatedly.
”You’re naming only one thing,” she protested. “You said you could name two.”
”And don’t tell me God works in mysterious ways,” Yossarian continued, hurtling on over her objections. “There’s nothing so mysterious about it. He’s not working at all. He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all about us. That’s the kind of God you people talk about - a country bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited, uncouth hayseed. Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being who finds it necessary to include such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in His divine system of creation?
