Apospasmata Thread

[Chopped In Half]

[Atheist]

1-0, τέρμα το οφτόπικ.

[Pitsadoros]

Ολόγιομο φεγγάρι στη μαρκίζα του ήρωα
Δείξε μου το σφάλμα της αλλότριας αντοχής
Ερχόνται ανόσιοι άγιοι να σε βαφτίσουν
Να σε βαφτίσουν, κράζω!


Πήδα ψηλά Δημοσθένη!
Πήδα ψηλα και ίσως με φτάσεις...
Μα το μόνο που θα αγγίξεις
είναι οι τρίχες απ τα μαρμάρινα αρχίδια μου
Δημοσθένη, εσύ...

Πευκοβελόνες.

[UmbilicalResidue]

kavouria pote dn 8 ginetai trendy

από fratzeska στις 19-06-2006 19:46

kapoia faklana safrakiasmenh..m antigrafei mhpws mn s petuxw
mwrh fola e3w!oti k n kaneis kurile k gunaika kuriws pote dn 8 8ewrhse!
oust apo edw kara katina!nmzs pws m 3 mplouzes p vgainei t vizei
e3w legesai trendy k tetoia!siga trendy einai h nootropia..
an htn sn k sena oi trendy tote t kavouria einai proistorites!
3upna dn ginetai n s trendy k n t paizeis kata t katesthmenou k etsi!
hello t kavouria dn allazoun!ela twra ti ms t paizeis kurile woman k etsi_3ereis ti shmainei arsakeio..mpa sta kavouro merh p suxnazeis p n t 3ereis!
k tn tsanta tn lui vitton..
g n tn krathseis mallon 8 prepei n suxnazeis s villes k n meneis
toulaxiston s ena a3ioprepes spiti k n xeis tn vasikh anatrofh k
t pneumatiko kosmo g n mporeseis!alla esu mwrh etsi opws eisai
kara kitsario k dn exeis idea apo salonia pws n pareis auta t vlepeis
k t 8es dn 3ereis ti shmainoun eisai ena antigrafakh sunh8hsmeno!aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaa mn prospoihsai kati p dn eisai!FETARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAA TS..
xxx
with love fratzeska

[metamelia2]

"Έκανες μαλακία στη Κικίτσα, τελείωσες μωρή φακλάνα"

[Pitsadoros]

"sto psilikatzidiko tis manas sou na xwtheis me ta giaourtia"

[Chopped In Half]

"The age is moving irrevocable forwards, and the situation of our noble classes is rapidly deteriorating. This may well explain their tactless behaviour towards highly cultures commoners; a mixture of appreciative respect and intolerable condescension, the product of a deep despair that the triviality of their past glory will be exposed to the knowing gaze of the wise, and their insufficiencies held up to ridicule."

Ε.Τ.Α. Hoffmann, Die Elixiere des Teufels, 1815

[tamagothi]

Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-l

[House Of Low Culture]

..Και καθώς οι δύο φίλοι συζητούσαν για την ιστορική προέλευση των αυγουλόμορφων αυγών, γύρω τους, οι ολάνθιστες πασχαλιές ανακάτευαν το μεθυστικό τους άρωμα με τις γλυκανάλατες μελωδίες του εθνικού σταρ του νησιού του Πάσχα, του Πασχάλη. Το θέαμα της φύσης ξεπερνούσε τα όρια της απλής γιορτής. Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ήτανε γιορτή. Ήτανε εξέγερση και πάλη ταξική. Οβελίες στριφογύριζαν δαιμονισμένοι με φρενήρη ρυθμό και κρεμμύδια στον κώλο, ως άλλοι Διάκοι. Οι κότες χώνονταν ξεπουπουλιασμένες στα κοτέτσια τους και οι κόκκορες στα κοκκορέτσια τους. Χιλιάδες ζωηρές πασχαλίτσες νοστίμιζαν την αχνιστή μαγειρίτσα με τη συγκινητική θυσία τους. Αμέτρητες φαλλόσχημες λαμπάδες έκαναν τη νύχτα μέρα και τη μέρα νύχτα, όταν ξάφνου ένας τρομερός βρόντος έστειλε τον Πρίγκηπα στο απέναντι(σ.σ. κι εκεί αλλάζει η σελίδα) λιβάδι με τις παπαρούνες, αγκαλιά με τα θραύσματα μιας παρακείμενης φτωχοαγελάδας που είχε φριχτά κατακρεουργηθεί σε κακοχασαπισμένα τέταρτα.
.................
...Έχοντας εγκαταλείψει ο καθένας την ασχολία του, ο αρτοποιός χτυπιόταν πάνω στον φούρνο, οι αγρότες εσφενδόνιζαν τις τσουγκράνες τους, οι χασάπηδες αγκαλιάζονταν με τα σφαγμένα βόδια, τα ζευγαράκια, αφήνοντας κατά μέρος το περιστασιακό μπαλαμούτι και τους μόνιμους συντρόφους τους, έπεφταν το ένα στην αγκαλιά του άλλου, ο Χριστός ξεκαρδιζόταν στον ώμο του Ιούδα, ο παπάς αγκάλιαζε το απολωλός πρόβατο που βέλαζε ευτυχισμένο, ο καντηλανάφτης το καντήλι του, ο αντισυνταγματάρχης τον αντιρρησία συνείδησης, ο δεξιός τον αριστερό ψάλτη, ο Ολυμπιακός τον Παναθηναϊκό ψάλτη, η θάλασσα την φωτιά και τα μυαλά τα κάγκελα. Εν ολίγοις, φίλε αναγνώστη, όλο το νησί του Πάσχα γελούσε μτον Πρίγκηπα Αλεξέι. Ο οποίος, παρεμπιπτόντως, έδειχνε αρκετά μειλίχιος μέσα στον ειδικό Γράψτουςολουςσταρχίδιασιυαγόριμουκαιμηνακούςκανένανγιατίεσύείσαιοπρώτος"
άθραυστο ζουρλομανδύα του.

- Ο Πάγος ή πως να απολαμβάνετε τα αγαθά του καπιταλισμού χωρίς να χάνετε από τα μάτια σας το στρατηγικό όραμα της αταξικής κοινωνίας.

[sabbattack]

..Και καθώς οι δύο φίλοι συζητούσαν για την ιστορική προέλευση των αυγουλόμορφων αυγών, γύρω τους, οι ολάνθιστες πασχαλιές ανακάτευαν το μεθυστικό τους άρωμα με τις γλυκανάλατες μελωδίες του εθνικού σταρ του νησιού του Πάσχα, του Πασχάλη. Το θέαμα της φύσης ξεπερνούσε τα όρια της απλής γιορτής. Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ήτανε γιορτή. Ήτανε εξέγερση και πάλη ταξική. Οβελίες στριφογύριζαν δαιμονισμένοι με φρενήρη ρυθμό και κρεμμύδια στον κώλο, ως άλλοι Διάκοι. Οι κότες χώνονταν ξεπουπουλιασμένες στα κοτέτσια τους και οι κόκκορες στα κοκκορέτσια τους. Χιλιάδες ζωηρές πασχαλίτσες νοστίμιζαν την αχνιστή μαγειρίτσα με τη συγκινητική θυσία τους. Αμέτρητες φαλλόσχημες λαμπάδες έκαναν τη νύχτα μέρα και τη μέρα νύχτα, όταν ξάφνου ένας τρομερός βρόντος έστειλε τον Πρίγκηπα στο απέναντι(σ.σ. κι εκεί αλλάζει η σελίδα) λιβάδι με τις παπαρούνες, αγκαλιά με τα θραύσματα μιας παρακείμενης φτωχοαγελάδας που είχε φριχτά κατακρεουργηθεί σε κακοχασαπισμένα τέταρτα.
.................
...Έχοντας εγκαταλείψει ο καθένας την ασχολία του, ο αρτοποιός χτυπιόταν πάνω στον φούρνο, οι αγρότες εσφενδόνιζαν τις τσουγκράνες τους, οι χασάπηδες αγκαλιάζονταν με τα σφαγμένα βόδια, τα ζευγαράκια, αφήνοντας κατά μέρος το περιστασιακό μπαλαμούτι και τους μόνιμους συντρόφους τους, έπεφταν το ένα στην αγκαλιά του άλλου, ο Χριστός ξεκαρδιζόταν στον ώμο του Ιούδα, ο παπάς αγκάλιαζε το απολωλός πρόβατο που βέλαζε ευτυχισμένο, ο καντηλανάφτης το καντήλι του, ο αντισυνταγματάρχης τον αντιρρησία συνείδησης, ο δεξιός τον αριστερό ψάλτη, ο Ολυμπιακός τον Παναθηναϊκό ψάλτη, η θάλασσα την φωτιά και τα μυαλά τα κάγκελα. Εν ολίγοις, φίλε αναγνώστη, όλο το νησί του Πάσχα γελούσε μτον Πρίγκηπα Αλεξέι. Ο οποίος, παρεμπιπτόντως, έδειχνε αρκετά μειλίχιος μέσα στον ειδικό Γράψτουςολουςσταρχίδιασιυαγόριμουκαιμηνακούςκανένανγιατίεσύείσαιοπρώτος"
άθραυστο ζουρλομανδύα του.

- Ο Πάγος ή πως να απολαμβάνετε τα αγαθά του καπιταλισμού χωρίς να χάνετε από τα μάτια σας το στρατηγικό όραμα της αταξικής κοινωνίας.

POSA MA POSA ROZ PIA?????

[hunted by a Freak]

Κοίτα πως χάνονται οι δρόμοι
μες τους ανθρώπους...
τα περίπτερα πως κρυώνουνε
απ΄τις βρεγμένες εφημερίδες
ο ουρανός
πως τρυπιέται στα καλώδια
και το τέλος της θάλασσας
από το βάρος των πλοίων
πόσο λυπημένες είναι οι ξεχασμένες ομπρέλες
στο τελευταίο δρομολόγιο
και το λάθος εκείνου που κατέβηκε
στην πιό πρίν στάση
τα αφημένα ρούχα στο καθαριστήριο
και τη ντροπήσου
ύστερα από δύο χρόνια που βρήκες λεφτά
πως να τα ζητήσεις
πως τσούκου τσούκου
αργά μεθοδικά
μς αλοιώνουνε
να καθορίζουμε τη στάση μας στη ζωή
από το στύλ της καρέκλας...



-------------------------------------------------------



Πάει. Αυτό ήταν.
Χάθηκε η ζωή μου φίλε
μέσα σε κίτρινους ανθρώπους
βρώμικα τζάμια
κι ανιστόρητους συμβιβασμούς.
Άρχισα να γέρνω
σαν εκείνη την ιτιούλα
που σουχα δείξει στη στροφή του δρόμου.
Και δεν είναι που δεν θέλω να ζήσω.
Είναι το γαμώτο που δεν έζησα.
κι ούτε που θα σε ξαναδώ.



Κατερίνα Γώγου - αποσπασματα απο το Ιδιώνυμο

[Kveldssanger]

Gods, my gods! How sad the evening earth! How mysterious the mists over
the swamps! He who has wandered in these mists, he who has suffered much
before death, he who has flown over this earth bearing on himself too heavy
a burden, knows it. The weary man knows it. And without regret he leaves the
mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, with a light heart he gives
himself into the hands of death, knowing that she alone can bring him peace.
The magical black horses also became tired and carried their riders
slowly, and ineluctable night began to overtake them. Sensing it at his
back, even the irrepressible Behemoth quieted down and, his claws sunk into
the saddle, flew silent and serious, puffing up his tail.
Night began to cover forests and fields with its black shawl, night lit
melancholy little lights somewhere far below - now no longer interesting and
necessary either for Margarita or for the master - alien lights. Night was
outdistancing the cavalcade, it sowed itself over them from above, casting
white specks of stars here and there in the saddened sky.
Night thickened, flew alongside, caught at the riders' cloaks and,
tearing them from their shoulders, exposed the deceptions. And when
Margarita, blown upon by the cool wind, opened her eyes, she saw how the
appearance of them all was changing as they flew to their goal. And when,
from beyond the edge of the forest, the crimson and full moon began rising
to meet them, all deceptions vanished, fell into the swamp, the unstable
magic garments drowned in the mists.
Hardly recognizable as Koroviev-Fagott, the self-appointed interpreter
to the mysterious consultant who needed no interpreting, was he who now flew
just beside Woland, to the right of the master's friend. In place of him who
had left Sparrow Hills in a ragged circus costume under the name of
Koroviev-Fagott, there now rode, softly clinking the golden chains of the
bridle, a dark-violet knight with a most gloomy and never-smiling face. He
rested his chin on his chest, he did not look at the moon, he was not
interested in the earth, he was thinking something of his own, flying beside
Woland.
"Why has he changed so?' Margarita quietly asked Woland to the
whistling of the wind.
This knight once made an unfortunate joke,' replied Woland, turning his
face with its quietly burning eye to Margarita. 'The pun he thought up, in a
discussion about light and darkness, was not altogether good. And after that
the knight had to go on joking a bit more and longer than he supposed. But
this is one of the nights when accounts are settled. The knight has paid up
and closed his account.'
Night also tore off Behemoth's fluffy tail, pulled off his fur and
scattered it in tufts over the swamps. He who had been a cat, entertaining
the prince of darkness, now turned out to be a slim youth, a demon-page, the
best jester the world has ever seen. Now he, too, grew quiet and flew
noiselessly, setting his young face towards the light that streamed from the
moon.
At the far side, the steel of his armour glittering, flew Azazello. The
moon also changed his face. The absurd, ugly fang disappeared without a
trace, and the albugo on his eye proved false. Azazello's eyes were both the
same, empty and black, and his face was white and cold. Now Azazello flew in
his true form, as the demon of the waterless desert, the killer-demon.
Margarita could not see herself, but she saw very well how the master
had changed. His hair was now white in the moonlight and gathered behind in
a braid, and it flew on the wind. When the wind blew the cloak away from the
master's legs, Margarita saw the stars of spurs on his jackboots, now going
out, now lighting up. Like the demon-youth, the master flew with his eyes
fixed on the moon, yet smiling to it, as to a close and beloved friend, and,
from a habit acquired in room no.118, murmuring something to himself.
And, finally, Woland also flew in his true image. Margarita could not
have said what his horse's bridle was made of, but thought it might be
chains of moonlight, and the horse itself was a mass of darkness, and the
horse's mane a storm cloud, and the rider's spurs the white flecks of stars.
Thus they flew in silence for a long time, until the place itself began
to change below them. The melancholy forests drowned in earthly darkness and
drew with them the dim blades of the rivers. Boulders appeared and began to
gleam below, with black gaps between them where the moonlight did not
penetrate.
Woland reined in his horse on a stony, joyless, flat summit, and the
riders then proceeded at a walk, listening to the crunch of flint and stone
under the horses' shoes. Moonlight flooded the platform greenly and
brightly, and soon Margarita made out an armchair in this deserted place and
in it the white figure of a seated man. Possibly the seated man was deaf, or
else too sunk in his own thoughts. He did not hear the stony earth shudder
under the horses' weight, and the riders approached him without disturbing
him.
The moon helped Margarita well, it shone better than the best electric
lantern, and Margarita saw that the seated man, whose eyes seemed blind,
rubbed his hands fitfully, and peered with those same unseeing eyes at the
disc of the moon. Now Margarita saw that beside the heavy stone chair, on
which sparks glittered in the moonlight, lay a dark, huge, sharp-eared dog,
and, like its master, it gazed anxiously at the moon. Pieces of a broken jug
were scattered by the seated man's feet and an undrying black-red puddle
spread there. The riders stopped their horses.
Your novel has been read,' Woland began, turning to the master, 'and
the only thing said about it was that, unfortunately, it is not finished.
So, then, I wanted to show you your hero. For about two thousand years he
has been sitting on this platform and sleeping, but when the full moon
comes, as you see, he is tormented by insomnia. It torments not only him,
but also his faithful guardian, the dog.
If it is true that cowardice is the most grievous vice, then the dog at
least is not guilty of it. Storms were the only thing the brave dog feared.
Well, he who loves must share the lot of the one he loves.'
`What is he saying?' asked Margarita, and her perfectly calm face
clouded over with compassion.
'He says one and the same thing,' Woland replied. `He says that even
the moon gives him no peace, and that his is a bad job. That is what he
always says when he is not asleep, and when he sleeps, he dreams one and the
same thing: there is a path of moonlight, and he wants to walk down it and
talk with the prisoner Ha-Nozri, because, as he insists, he never finished
what he was saying that time, long ago, on the fourteenth day of the spring
month of Nisan. But, alas, for some reason he never manages to get on to
this path, and no one comes to him. Then there's no help for it, he must
talk to himself. However, one does need some diversity, and to his talk
about the moon he often adds that of all things in the world, he most hates
his immortality and his unheard-of fame. He maintains that he would
willingly exchange his lot for that of the ragged tramp Matthew Levi.'
`Twelve thousand moons for one moon long ago, isn't that too much?'
asked Margarita.
`Repeating the story with Frieda?' said Woland. 'But don't trouble
yourself here, Margarita. Everything will turn out right, the world is built
on that.'
'Let him go!' Margarita suddenly cried piercingly, as she had cried
once as a witch, and at this cry a stone fell somewhere in the mountains and
tumbled down the ledges into the abyss, filling the mountains with rumbling.
But Margarita could not have said whether it was the rumbling of its fall or
the rumbling of satanic laughter. In any case, Woland was laughing as he
glanced at Margarita and said:
'Don't shout in the mountains, he's accustomed to avalanches anyway,
and it won't rouse him. You don't need to ask for him, Margarita, because
the one he so yearns to talk with has already asked for him.' Here Woland
turned to the master and said:
'Well, now you can finish your novel with one phrase!'
The master seemed to have been expecting this, as he stood motionless
and looked at the seated procurator. He cupped his hands to his mouth and
cried out so that the echo leaped over the unpeopled and unforested
mountains:
'You're free! You're free! He's waiting for you!'
The mountains turned the master's voice to thunder, and by this same
thunder they were destroyed. The accursed rocky walls collapsed. Only the
platform with the stone armchair remained. Over the black abyss into which
the walls had gone, a boundless city lit up, dominated by gleaming idols
above a garden grown luxuriously over many thousands of moons. The path of
moonlight so long awaited by the procurator stretched right to this garden,
and the first to rush down it was the sharp-eared dog. The man in the white
cloak with blood-red lining rose from the armchair and shouted something in
a hoarse, cracked voice. It was impossible to tell whether he was weeping or
laughing, or what he shouted. It could only be seen that, following his
faithful guardian, he, too, rushed headlong down the path of moonlight.
`I'm to follow him there?' the master asked anxiously, holding the
bridle.
'No,' replied Woland, 'why run after what is already finished?'
There, then?' the master asked, turning and pointing back, where the
recently abandoned city with the gingerbread towers of its convent, with the
sun broken to smithereens in its windows, now wove itself behind them.
'Not there, either,' replied Woland, and his voice thickened and flowed
over the rocks. `Romantic master! He, whom the hero you invented and have
just set free so yearns to see, has read your novel.' Here Woland turned to
Margarita: `Margarita Nikolaevna! It is impossible not to believe that you
have tried to think up the best future for the master, but, really, what I
am offering you, and what Yeshua has asked for you, is better still! Leave
them to each other,' Woland said, leaning towards the master's saddle from
his own, pointing to where the procurator had gone, 'let's not interfere
with them. And maybe they'll still arrive at something.' Here Woland waved
his arm in the direction of Yershalaim, and it went out.
'And there, too,' Woland pointed behind them, 'what are you going to do
in the little basement?' Here the sun broken up in the glass went out.
'Why?' Woland went on persuasively and gently, 'oh, thrice-romantic
master, can it be that you don't want to go strolling with your friend in
the daytime under cherry trees just coming into bloom, and in the evening
listen to Schubert's music? Can it be that you won't like writing with a
goose quill by candlelight? Can it be that you don't want to sit over a
retort like Faust, in hopes that you'll succeed in forming a new homunculus?
There! There! The house and the old servant are already waiting for you, the
candles are already burning, and soon they will go out, because you will
immediately meet the dawn. Down this path, master, this one! Farewell! It's
time for me to go!'
'Farewell!' Margarita and the master answered Woland in one cry. Then
the black Woland, heedless of any road, threw himself into a gap, and his
retinue noisily hurried down after him. There were no rocks, no platform, no
path of moonlight, no Yershalaim around. The black steeds also vanished. The
master and Margarita saw the promised dawn. It began straight away,
immediately after the midnight moon.
The master walked with his friend in the brilliance of the first rays
of morning over a mossy little stone bridge. They crossed it. The faithful
lovers left the stream behind and walked down the sandy path.
'Listen to the stillness,' Margarita said to the master, and the sand
rustled under her bare feet, `listen and enjoy what you were not given in
life - peace. Look, there ahead is your eternal home, which you have been
given as a reward. I can already see the Venetian window and the twisting
vine, it climbs right up to the roof. Here is your home, your eternal home.
I know that in the evenings you will be visited by those you love,
those who interest you and who will never trouble you. They will play for
you, they will sing for you, you will see what light is in the room when the
candles are burning. You will fall asleep, having put on your greasy and
eternal nightcap, you will fall asleep with a smile on your lips. Sleep will
strengthen you, you will reason wisely. And you will no longer be able to
drive me away. I will watch over your sleep.'
Thus spoke Margarita, walking with the master to their eternal home,
and it seemed to the master that Margarita's words flowed in the same way as
the stream they had left behind flowed and whispered, and the master's
memory, the master's anxious, needled memory began to fade. Someone was
setting the master free, as he himself had just set free the hero he had
created. This hero had gone into the abyss, gone irrevocably, the son of the
astrologer-king, forgiven on the eve of Sunday, the cruel fifth procurator
of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate.

[rincewind2k]

αφού για αρκετές σελίδες περιγράφει με λεπτομέρεια το Enigma machine, το χαλασμένο ποδήλατο του Alan Turing και τον ενοχλητικό θόρυβο που κάνουν τα αεροπλάνα:

Waterhouse is thinking about cycles within cycles. He’s already made up his mind that human society is one of these cycles-within-cycles things [He has no hard data to back this up; it just seems like a cool idea.] and now he’s trying to figure out whether it is like Turing’s bicycle (works fine for a while, then suddenly the chain falls off, hence the occasional world war) or like an Enigma machine (grinds away incomprehensibly for a long time, then suddenly the wheels line up like a slot machine and everything is made plain in some sort of global epiphany or, if you prefer, apocalypse) or just like a rotary airplane engine (runs and runs and runs; nothing special happens; it just makes a lot of noise).

--Neal Stephenson, Cryptonomicon

[DarkOmeN]

Απο που ερχόσαστε όλοι εσείς?Και που πάτε όλοι εσείς?

Μα η Καλιφόρνια είναι μεγάλη πολιτεία.

Όχι και τόσο.Ούτε ολάκερες οι Ηνωμένες Πολιτείες είναι όσο το φαντάζεσαι μεγάλες.Δεν είναι αρκετά μεγάλες.Δεν έχει αρκετή θέση για σένα και για μένα,για ανθρώπους σαν κι εμένα,για πλούσιους και φτωχούς που να μπορούν να ζήσουν μαζί μέσα στη χώρα,για κλέφτες και τίμιους.Για πεινασμένους και κοιλαράδες.Γιατι δεν γυρίζεις πίσω από'κει που 'ρθες?

Ζω σε μια χώρα λεύτερη.Μπορώ να πάω όπου θέλω.[...]

Ε, για δοκίμασε να κάνεις χρήση της λευτεριάς σου.Είσαι λεύτερος,σου λέει οάλλος, μόνο σαν σου βαστά η τσέπη σου να πληρώσεις τη λευτερία σου.



Τα Σταφύλια της Οργής,Τζων Στάινμπεκ

[Chopped In Half]

"Colonel Cargill, General Peckem's troubleshooter, was a forceful, ruddy man. Before the war he had been an alert, hard-hitting, aggressive marketing executive. He was a very bad marketing executive. Colonel Cargill was so awful a marketing executive that his services were much sought after by firms eager to establish losses for tax purposes. Throughout the civilized world, from Battery Park to Fulton Street, he was known as a dependable man for a fast tax write-off. His prices were high, for failure often did not come easily. He had to start at the top and work his way down, and with sympathetic friends in Washington, losing money was no simple matter. It took months of hard work and careful misplanning. A person misplaced, disorganized, miscalculated, overlooked everything and opened every loophole, and just when he thought he had it made, the government gave him a lake or a forest or an oilfield and spoiled everything. Even with such handicaps, Colonel Cargill could be relied on to run the most prosperous enterprise into the ground. He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody."

-Joseph Heller, Catch 22



η υπόσταση αυτού του πολύ βιβλίου τίθεται υπό σοβαρή αμφισβήτηση