Book: Over the cuckoo's nest. Page 1

The theory of therapeutic community I have heard so many times that I could recite from front to back and back to front - and that man must learn to live in the group before you will be able to function in a normal society, and that the group is able to help him, showing where his disorder, and who is normal and who is not, society itself decides, you could be all right to match. And all that crap. One has only to see the new patient, the doctor immediately to his theory, and went; only he, it seems, is the chief, he leads the congregation. Says that the purpose of the therapeutic community is a democratic ward, fully managed by the patients, their votes, and it seeks to release us back into the street, to the outside world, worthy citizens. Any little gripe, any grievance, anything you would like to change, it is necessary to Express before the group and discussed instead of letting it fester inside yourself. And you should feel at ease in your surroundings to such an extent that without reserve to discuss emotional issues with patients and medical staff. Talk, he says, discuss, confess. And if a friend said something in everyday conversation, write in the logbook to know the doctors and nurses. This is not a knock, as they say in the jargon, it's helping your fellow. Remove the old sins in the light of day, to bathe in the eyes of the people. And participate in group discussion. Help yourself and your friends probe into the secrets of the subconscious. From friends should not be secrets.
It commonly ends in that their task is to make a branch similar to those free and democratic places where you have lived: let the inner peace will become a large-scale model of the great outside, where one day you will return.

- 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.

Again turn misty in the car and she SnagIt me cold and as white as skim milk, so thick you could hide it if I did not hold. In the fog not see ten centimeters, and above the howling you hear is only the older sister, as she whooping ache down the corridor, knocking patients off road braided bag.
Before noon again brought misty's car, but let not at full capacity - it's not as thick, something you can see, if strained. Ever stop to strain finally give up, get lost in the fog, as has happened already with some Chronicles...

A strange place where people do not allow themselves to laugh.

Dad says, if not careful, people will ride you.

But at least I tried, ' he says. - Damn it at least I had enough, Yes or no?

- They say people will brush their teeth, when in a head will climb?
Yeah, that's why...
- Can you imagine? Who at six-thirty she brushes her teeth, who in twenty-six... yeah, six starts. Not, as you said.

Man is not to present a weak, if not see it.

If somebody d of come in and took a look, men watching a blank TV, a fifty-year-old woman hollering and squealing at the back of their heads about discipline and order and recriminations, they're d of thought the whole bunch was crazy as loons.
If someone came in and saw it - the way people look extinguished a TV, and a fifty year old woman shrieking in the back of them about discipline, order, and about the punishment, he would think the whole company is insane.

Pete had looked out first and seen all the delivery-room machinery waiting for him and somehow realized what he was being born into, and had grabbed on to everything handy in there to try to stave off being born.
Pete first looked around, saw the equipment waiting for him in the maternity ward as I realized where he was born, and began to grasp at anything, to not be born.

And eventually we all got to lose. Nobody can help that.
And sooner or later each of us must lose. There's nothing you can do about it.

About the fish I know one thing: what is better than cleaned.

- So a lobotomy is when cut out pieces of the brain?
- (...) Castration of the frontal lobes. I guess if she can't cut below the belt, she will be cut above the eyes.

So for forty years he was able to live, if not right in the world of men, at least on the edge of it.
So for forty years he was able to live, at least not in the world of men, but on its margins.