The first thing I thought of when I heard about the man called Snowden, currently running from the heavy-handed arm of paranoid U.S. law, was this:
Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Set fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness was all.
It gave me goosebumps.
Literature has been an oracle all along:
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Maybe we should have paid better to attention to what our writers/seers were trying to tell us, from Yeats to Orwell and Heller.
This one’s creepy, too:
“Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can’t stop them from doing.”