Ken Kesey. Over the cuckoo's nest (№ 219017)

- Listen, these sobraniia always you are so?
- Always? Harding humming stops. He no longer chews his cheek, but still stares ahead, past McMurphy's shoulder.
- Meets with group therapy always you are so? The carnage in the chicken yard?
Harding yanked the head, and his eyes find McMurphy as if he only now noticed that it's someone sitting there. He again bites his cheeks, his face creases in the middle, and you'd think he's smiling. He straightens his shoulders, hanging on the back, and takes a relaxed look.
- In the poultry yard? I fear your quaint metaphors do not reach me, my friend. Don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.
- Yeah, then I'll explain. McMurphy raises his voice; he looks around at the others acute, but says for them. The pack notices a spot of blood on some chicken and starts to bite and rasklepyvajut to the blood, to bones and feathers. Most often, this mess appears blood on another chicken, and then it's their turn. Then another on the other blood, they also pecked to death, and more and more. So a few hours goes to the expense of the whole aviary, I saw myself. It's a terrible thing. And prevent them - kuryam - only if you wear blinders. So they are not seen.
Harding laces his long fingers around a knee and draws the knee toward him, leaning back in the chair.
- In the poultry yard. In the most pleasant analogy, my friend.
- This is the most I remembered, while sitting in your meeting, if you want to know the dirty truth. Like a flock of dirty chickens.
- So that makes me the chicken with the spot of blood?
- Who?
They still smile at each other, but their voices have become so flattened, quiet, I have revenge very close, otherwise not hear. The other acutes are closer.
- And I want to know? Want to know who pecks that first peck?
Harding waiting to go on.
Sister, that's who.