But then his idea of a fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell the word, - or at the most, the image of a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle with 'Ran away from the subscriber' under it. The magic of the real presence of distress, -- the imploring human eye, frail, trembling human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless agony, -- these he had never tried.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all - I'm not saying that - but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything.
I glance at my boots. They are big and clumsy, the breeches are tucked into them, and standing up one looks well-built and powerful in these great drainpipes. But when we go bathing and strip, suddenly we have slender legs again and slight shoulders. We are no longer soldiers but little more than boys; no one would believe that we could carry packs.
It means you can’t cheat Nature, he says. Nature demands variety, for men. It stands to reason, it’s part of the procreational strategy. It’s Nature’s plan. I don’t say anything, so he goes on. Women know that instinctively. Why did they buy so many different clothes, in the old days? To trick the men into thinking they were several different women. A new one each day.
Major Major’s father was a sober God-fearing man whose idea of a good joke was to lie about his age. He was a long-limbed farmer, a God-fearing, freedom-loving, law-abiding rugged individualist who held that federal aid to anyone but farmers was creeping socialism. He advocated thrift and hard work and disapproved of loose women who turned him down.
There were marches, of course, a lot of women and some men. But they were smaller than you might have thought. I guess people were scared. And when it was known that the police, or the army, or whoever they were, would open fire almost as soon as any of the marches even started, the marches stopped.
Pentru firea mea, nu pun mana in foc. Este, cred, prea putin ingaduitoare; sigur, prea putin, pentru a conveni celorlalti. Nu pot uita prostiile si pacatele oamenilor atat de repede pe cat ar trebui, si nici ofensele pe care mi le aduc. Nu ma las impresionat de orice incercare ce s-ar face de a ma emotiona. Caracterul meu ar putea fi numit ranchiunos. Buna mea parere o data pierduta, este pierduta pentru vecie.