The minute she was gone, Yossarian tore the slip of paper up and walked away in the other direction, feeling very much like a big shot because a beautiful young girl like Luciana had slept with him and did not ask for money. He was pretty pleased with himself until he looked up in the dining room of the Red Cross building and found himself eating breakfast with dozens and dozens of other servicemen in all kinds of fantastic uniforms, and then all at once he was surrounded by images of Luciana getting out of her clothes and into her clothes and caressing and haranguing him tempestuously in the pink rayon chemise she wore in bed with him and would not take off. Yossarian choked on his toast and eggs at the enormity of his error in tearing her long, lithe, nude, young vibrant limbs into tiny pieces of paper so imprudently and dumping her down so smugly into the gutter from the curb. He missed her terribly already. There were so many strident faceless people in uniform in the dining room with him. He felt an urgent desire to be alone with her again soon and sprang up impetuously from his table and went running outside and back down the street toward the apartment in search of the tiny bits of paper in the gutter, but they had all been flushed away by a street cleaner's hose.

É nesses momentos que a literatura se parece com aquela comida ao mesmo tempo macia e crocante, que você mastiga e mastiga e ela continua sempre gostosa, como um gosto que nunca termina. Ou como sua música da semana, da qual você acredita que nunca vai enjoar.

O trecho é de Catch 22, que estou lendo no original por recomendação do meu professor de inglês. É um dos melhores livros que vou ler na vida. Tem trechos, como esse aí de cima, que você sente vontade de reler e reler e reler. É livro que você lê rápido porque quer mais, e lê devagar porque sabe que ele vai acabar. E que fala de toda a sua vida.

Melhor recomendação de leitura que já recebi.