234. Moraga, Cherrie (1996), "The Breakdown of the Bicultural Mind," in Names We Call Home: Autobiography on Racial Identity, ed. Becky Thompson and Sangeeta Tyagi, New York, Routeledge. 9. 238.
It takes a doctor, a man whose profession is protecting life, to remind him, "We're all dying. Where the devil else do you think you're heading?" (187) Names are meaningless in war, the absurdity distances the reader from the character and it's humanity, allowing death easier access into the narrative until the novel's final segment. Major Major, Milo Minderbiner, and, simply, Mudd, to name a few, are all ridiculous and are names that no reader would be able to relate with a name he or she has encountered in the real world. Heller's characters are not there to inspire much sympathy from the reader.
When observing patients with depression the University of Pennsylvania Press determined that, “They are not amused, do not feel like laughing, and do not get any feeling of satisfaction from jesting remark, joke, or cartoon” (22). Hamlet shows no joy throughout the play, which depicts his anhedonia. Hamlet admits himself that he has lost his job by saying, “I have of late- but wherefore I know not-lost all my mirth, forgone all customs and exercises” (Shakespeare II.ii.303). Hamlet can see himself changing but does not understand why. He knows he is no longer joyful and has stopped exercising.
Saggar S, (1992) Contemporary Political Studies, Race and Politics in Britain, Hemel Hempstead, Simon and Schuster. Skellington R, Morris P and Gordon P, (1992), 'Race' in Britain Today, London, Sage. Solomos J and Back L, (1996) Racism and Society, London, McMillan Press. Solomos J, (1999), Social Research and the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry: Sociological Research Online, vol. 4, no.
Thomson, Witness Against the Beast – W. Blake and the Moral Law, Cambridge: Cambridge University press, 1993. Susan Stewart, On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection, Durham: Duke University Press, 1993. Harold Bloom, William Wordsworth, New York: Chelsea House Publications, 2009.
I think my liver is diseased. Then again, I don’t know a thing about my illness; I'm not even sure what hurts. I'm not being treated and never have been, though I respect both medicine and doctors. Besides, I'm extremely superstitious -well at least enough to respect medicine. (I'm sufficiently educated not to be superstitious, but I am, anyway.)