Analysis on Catch 22 OR The Ballad of the Sad Cafe

Re-read the last two passages (from Catch-22 and The Ballad of the Sad Cafe) and then write a 3-page analysis of one of those excerpts.
An analysis of this type focuses on the literary characteristics of the text you have read. You can also address other concepts, such as Character, which do not appear in the list.

Catch-22: Yossarian, the main character of Catch-22, is a navigator on a bomber during the Second World War. This means he tells the other crew members where to drop the bombs. Having flown combat missions, Yossarian decides that he doesn’t want to take part in the war anymore. He tries to escape by claiming that he is insane. However, the Powers-That-Be employ Catch-22–which in this case prevents the Doctor from grounding him because “anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t really crazy” (p.47). Thus Yossarian spends most of the novel attempting to prove how crazy he really is (quite impossible, in the insane context of the war).

*Interesting Question: Who was Washington Irving?

The Ballad of the Sad Cafe: It is important to realize that this passage begins in the present but then “flashes back” to the past, when Miss Amelia ran the cafe, and the town was a happier place.

  • Interesting Question: In paragraph 2, who is the woman looking out the window? What clue tells you the answer?

Readings
From Catch-22

After he made up his mind to spend the rest of the war in the hospital, Yossarian wrote letters to everyone he knew saying that he was in the hospital but never mentioning why. One day he had a better idea. To everyone he knew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. “They asked for volunteers. It’s very dangerous, but someone has to do it. “I’ll write you the instant I get back.” And he had not written anyone since.
All the officer patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the enlisted-men patients, who were kept in residence in wards of their own. It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers. After the first day he had no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective. The next day he made war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity the following day when he blacked out everything in the letters but a, an, and the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in just about every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of salutations and signatures and leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked out all but the salutation “Dear Mary” from a letter, and at the bottom he wrote, “I yearn for you tragically. A.T. Tappman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” A.T. Tappman was the group chaplain’s name.
When he had exhausted all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses on the envelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire metropolises with careless flicks of his wrist as though he were God. Catch-22 required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer’s name. Most letters he didn’t read at all. On those he didn’t read at all he wrote his own name. On those he did read he wrote, “Washington Irving.” When that grew monotonous he wrote, “Irving Washington.” Censoring the envelopes had serious repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon that floated a C.I.D. man back into the ward posing as a patient. They all knew he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about an officer named Irving or Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn’t censor letters. He found them too monotonous. (8-9)

From “The Ballad of the Sad Cafe”

        The town itself is dreary; not much is there except the cotton mill, the two-room houses where the workers live, a few peach trees, a church with two colored windows, and a miserable main street only a hundred yards long.  On Saturdays the tenants from the near-by farms come in for a day of talk and trade.  Otherwise the town is lonesome, sad, and like a place that is far off and estranged from all other places in the world.  The nearest train stop is Society City, and the Greyhound and White Bus Lines use the Forks Falls Road which is three miles away.  The winters here are short and raw, the summers white with glare and fiery hot.
        If you walk along the main street on an August afternoon there is nothing whatsoever to do.  The largest building, in the very center of the town, is boarded up completely and leans so far to the right that it seems bound to collapse at any minute.  The house is very old.  There is about it a curious, cracked look that is very puzzling until you suddenly realize that at one time, and long ago, the right side of the front porch had been painted, and part of the wall--but the painting was left unfinished and one portion of the house is darker and dingier than the other.  The building looks completely deserted.  Nevertheless, on the second floor there is one window which is not boarded; sometimes in the late afternoon when the heat is at its worst a hand will slowly open the shutter and a face will look down on the town.  It is a face like the terrible dim faces known in dreams--sexless and white, with two gray crossed eyes which are turned inward so sharply that they seem to be exchanging with each other one long and secret gaze of grief.  The face lingers at the window for an hour or so, then the shutters are closed once more, and as likely as not there will not be another soul to be seen along the main street.  These August afternoons--when your shift is finished, there is absolutely nothing to do; you might as well walk down to the Forks Falls Road and listen to the chain gang.
        However, here in this very town there was once a cafe.  And this old boarded-up house was unlike any other place for many miles around.  There were tables with cloths and paper napkins, colored streamers from the electric fans, great gatherings on Saturday nights.  The owner of the place was Miss Amelia Evans.  But the person most responsible for the success and gaiety of the place was a hunchback called Cousin Lymon.  One other person had a part in the story of this cafe--he was the former husband of Miss Amelia, a terrible character who returned to the town after an long term in the penitentiary, caused ruin, and then went on his way again.  The cafe has long since been closed, but it is still remembered.
        The place was not always a cafe.  Miss Amelia inherited the building from her father, and it was a store that carried mostly feed, guano, and staples such as meal and snuff.  Miss Amelia was rich.  In addition to the store she operated a still three miles back in the swamp, and ran out the best liquor in the county.  She was a dark, tall woman with bones and muscles like a man.  Her hair was cut short and brushed back from the forehead, and there was about her sunburned face a tense, haggard quality.  She might have been a handsome woman if, even then, she was not slightly cross-eyed.  There were those who would have courted her, but Miss Amelia cared nothing for the love of men and was a solitary person.  Her marriage had been unlike any other marriage ever contracted in this county--it was a strange and dangerous marriage, lasting only for ten days,that left the whole town wondering and shocked.  Except for this queer marriage, Miss Amelia had lived her life alone.  Often she spent whole nights back in her shed in the swamp, dressed in overalls and gum boots, silently guarding the low fire of the still.

Sample Solution

ACED ESSAYS