Catch 22 and Me

I have been meaning to read Catch 22, the 1960’s classic by Joseph Heller, for the last several years ever since I began noticing its repeated reference within the books that I tend to read. I finally initiate the task when, after helping my parents pack up and move out of their home of 40 years, I stumble across a decaying edition of it. I have seen the spine of this particular book among one hundred others throughout my entire childhood sitting on our basement bookshelf. I select it out of an already packed box that is waiting to go to the thrift store and tuck it into my bag. I am its new owner. It feels that I now have a new responsibility.

I haven’t any idea as to the plot, themes or political views of this book. I must admit that I do not even know that it is about war prior to opening it. I only know that it has been an important influence on American literature for the last half century and I am curious.  My book is missing the first 15 pages but I do not let that deter me. Not in this wondrous age of technology. I am quickly able to find the first chapter online and rush to read it so as to be able to return to my preferred paperback method.

This book does not grab me as I had hoped it would. I am frustrated by its intentionally circular dialogue and painfully redundant themes. I understand this is part of the point of Catch.

Now, I tend to read a few books at a time so that, depending on my mood and circumstance, I always have something (or more appropriately “someone”) fitting to turn to. Once I get started it is slow going over the first two months. I seem to want to choose just about anything else to read most of the time. However, I am determined to finish it. I make a private pact with myself to complete it while away on my upcoming travel overseas where I plan on having more time and energy to devote to it. I am about half way through the book when I embark on my journey.

During my trip I consider opening Catch a number of times but find myself consistently turning to another book I had brought along for company which is one of my all time favorites. “High Fidelity” is not exactly literature but it is a friend and a welcome, familiar voice while I am in a place that is entirely unfamiliar.  Hornby’s character, Rob, wins out over Heller’s Yossarian every time I turn to read which is surprisingly little over the 2 weeks.  Catch does not receive any of my personal attention other than the necessary and careful removal of its already examined and detached physical bits and pieces.  This book is falling apart as I travel and I work at placing its various disintegrating pages in the most humble of locations throughout my airport travels through the US, Qatar and Sri Lanka.

While I am at my first departure gate on my return home I am firmly aware that I have not made good on my pact. This is unusual for me; I tend to do what I set out to do but this time I really seem to be stuck. I give myself some grace and know that I have 35 hours of travel time before I land in Vancouver.  I will get to it, for sure, on my second flight that is 16 hours. But, no. I strangely turn to the TV screen for familiar sit coms and North American humor to begin the process of easing back into real life. This crumbling book is burning a hole in my backpack and becoming my burden.

The last flight home is a 6 hour trip from Houston to Vancouver. I am so tired but know that I cannot close my bleary eyes should I hope to sleep tonight when I arrive at midnight. As luck would have it, I find myself sitting beside a young woman who captivates me and we spend most of the flight falling in love, as I tend to do with people now and then. We share our travel stories, our lessons and reasons for returning home.  We laugh loudly, I cry, she peacefully departs learned wisdoms and alternative views. We seem to be on the same frequency and are clicking in all the right spots. Nearing the end of the flight, with about one hour to go, my new friend needs to rest her eyes. She tosses her shawl over her head and quickly claims some sleep.

I seize this moment. In the last leg of the last hour of my time away I grab Catch and commit. It takes some time to get reacquainted with its non-linear style and occasionally non-sensical dialogue. Soon enough I settle into it and start enjoying the humor. I can feel the gradual build up to the climax where gruesome truths are revealed. With only one chapter remaining, the yellowed pages can hold on no longer and fall out into my hands with each turn. There is little left of this important novel, only the words which I have yet to read.

This trip across the earth has been an epic undertaking for me. It has required great commitment, planning, effort, compromise with my husband, consideration for our children, courage to stand up to the spoken and unspoken messages that ‘mother’s don’t do this’, and an internal motivation to seek answers to questions that I have been unable to even articulate. This travel experience has had a gear-shifting impact on my life. Something inside me has been awakened. It was a calculated risk that I took because I needed to, for myself, my life and those that rely on me. In some informal way, it was a call to duty.

In the dark and quiet of the late night airplane I approach the final pages of Catch 22. I am engaged with this story in, what is quite literally, the final hour. I don’t know how it is about to end. I have no sense of what is coming. Yossarian is in a predicament, a catch, where he has a decision to make that will forever change his life. He ultimately decides to flee the war and abandon his contributing role in the senseless and seemingly endless violence and struggle to merely survive. He chooses what he knows is best, not only for his mortal self but also for his soul, his fallen comrades and humanity.

My eyes widened and my pulse quickens as I read these words on the final pages.

“But you can’t just turn your back on all your responsibilities and run away from them,” Major Danby insisted. “It’s such a negative move. It’s escapist.”

Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. “I’m not running away from my responsibilities.  I’m running to them. There’s nothing negative about running away to save my life.”

I should say that before I left on this trip, I had told a few select people that I felt like leaving at this time might, in some non-lethal way, save my life. I cannot explain how reading these words of Heller’s at this moment in time makes me feel. It is profound and validating.  And, just when I think it can’t get any better, he ends the story with this:

“ 'Goodbye, Yossarian, ' the chaplain called. 'And, good luck. I'll stay here and persevere, and we'll meet again when the fighting stops. '

'So long, Chaplain. Thanks, Danby. '

'How do you feel, Yossarian?'

'Fine. No, I'm very frightened. '

'That's good, ' said Major Danby. 'It proves you're still alive. It won't be fun. '

Yossarian started out. 'Yes it will. '

'I mean it, Yossarian. You'll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They'll bend heaven and earth to catch you. '

'I'll keep on my toes every minute. '

'You'll have to jump. '

'I'll jump. '

'Jump!' Major Danby cried.

Yossarian jumped. Nately's whore was hiding just outside the door. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.”

THE END

I had jumped, too. Took a leap of faith in the direction of Sri Lanka and finding myself. I feel understood. It seems an awful lot like a gift. I close my tired eyes and experience deep gratitude. Touchdown.