‘The trouble with you is that you think you’re too good for all the conventions of society. You probably think you’re too good for me too, just because I arrived at puberty late. Well, do you know what you are? You’re a frustrated, unhappy, disillusioned, undisciplined, maladjusted young man!’ Major Sanderson’s disposition seemed to mellow as he reeled off the uncomplimentary adjectives. ‘Yes, sir,’ Yossarian agreed carefully. ‘I guess you’re right.’ ‘Of course I’m right. You’re immature. You’re been unable to adjust to the idea of war.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘You have a morbid aversion to dying. You probably resent the fact that you’re at war and might get your head blown off any second.’ ‘I more than resent it, sir. I’m absolutely incensed.’ ‘You have deep-seated survival anxieties. And you don’t like bigots, bullies, snobs or hypocrites. Subconsciously there are many people you hate.’ ‘Consciously, sir, consciously,’ Yossarian corrected in an effort to help. ‘I hate them consciously.’ ‘You’re antagonistic to the idea of being robbed, exploited, degraded, humiliated or deceived. Misery depresses you. Ignorance depresses you. Persecution depresses you. Violence depresses you. Slums depress you. Greed depresses you. Crime depresses you. Corruption depresses you. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re manic-depressive!’ ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps I am.’ ‘Don’t try to deny it.’ ‘I’m not denying it, sir,’ said Yossarian, pleased with the miraculous rapport that finally existed between them. ‘I agree with all you’ve said.’ ‘Then you admit you’re crazy, do you?’