“I’m cold,' Snowden said softly, 'I’m cold.''You’re going to be all right, kid,' Yossarian reassured him with a grin. 'You’re going to be all right.''I’m cold,' Snowden said again in a frail, childlike voice. 'I’m cold.''There, there,' Yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. 'There, there.''I’m cold,' Snowden whimpered. 'I’m cold.''There, there. There, there.”

“Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all.I'm cold,' Snowden said. 'I'm cold.”

“When I’m cold and I fart, I always admonish myself saying, “Stop! Close the back door. You’re letting all the cold air in.”

“God, you’re arrogant,” Charlotte growled as Kingsley slapped cold metal handcuffs on to each of her wrists. “I’m not arrogant. I’m French.”

“You’re selfish and you’re cold, and I’m tired of getting frostbite when I touch you. (Acheron)”

“on. I’m getting cold.’ Clutching the pluckers, I call her. ‘Right,”