Author of quotes: Ken Kesey. Page 6

People are arranged so that sooner or later will move away from the one who gives them more than usual, and ponder: and it-what's the benefit?

In every situation there are usually a figure whose influence in any case should not be underestimated.

The secret of being a top-notch con man is being able to know what the mark wants, and how to make him think he's getting it.
What's the secret to a good con man - he understands what the dude is necessary and how to convince the dude that he gets it.

There's no better way in the world to aggravate somebody who's trying to make it hard for you than by acting like you're not bothered.
If someone wants you, the more likely you dosaditi him, if you do like it it doesn't bother you.

Laughs because she understands: you have to laugh at all that causes pain to maintain balance, so the world wouldn't make you mad.
(Really strong until then don't, until you learn to see all the funny side. He knows we need to laugh at what's bothering you, otherwise you will not maintain balance, otherwise the world will drive you crazy.)

I have a strange feeling that the sun shines on the three of them brighter than before. Everything else looks as usual - chickens running around in the grass on the roofs of mud houses, the grasshoppers jump from Bush to Bush, sagebrush kids panicles rounded up the flies with dried fish, and they rise the black clouds - everything is as usual on a summer day. Besides the sun, as it shines on three visiting a hundred times brighter, and I can see the... Seams where they are made. And you can almost see inside their machine that takes my words, tries to shove them back and forth, turning this way and that, and when it does not find a ready place, discards, if they did not.

The black boys stoke the sucking pink mouths of the Vegetables a shade too fast for swallowing, and the Mechanical Soft squeezes out down their little knobs of chins onto the greens. The black boys cuss the Vegetables and ream the mouths bigger with a twisting motion of the spoon, like coring a rotten apple: "This ol' fart Blastic, he's comin' to pieces befo' my very eyes. I can't tell no more if I'm feeding him bacon puree or chunks of his own fuckin' tongue."
Nurses firemen too quickly, the pink mouths of the vegetables don't get ready to swallow, and the mechanical soft squeezed into their little, dripping on the green. The nurses scolded vegetables, stretch their mouths wider, Vartanov spoon, like the eye on the potato is cut, "This old fart Blastic falling to pieces before my eyes. I don't know if I have ham jelly swallows, whether your language to pieces."

He got no hair on his face and none on his head to speak of; it looks like he glued some on once but it kept slipping off and getting in his cuffs and his shirt pocket and down his collar. Maybe that's why he keeps his collar so tight, to keep the little pieces of hair from falling down in there. Maybe that's why he laughs so much, because he isn't able to keep all the pieces out.
A person without hair, and their heads so much that even considered not worth it; it seems that he once stuck, and they do not hold and fall, some in cuffs, some scruff, some in a shirt pocket. Therefore, probably, and his collar so tight, to less hair filled. Because it can, and laughing all the time that the neck is tickled.

That's a good rule for a smart gambler: look the game over awhile before you draw yourself a hand.
A good player always remember this rule: look the game, and then ask for card touch.

The air is pressed in by the walls, too tight for laughing.
The air compressed by the walls, too tight for laughing.

Bring these old sins into the open where they can be washed by the sight of all.
Remove the old sins in the light of day, to bathe in the eyes of the people.

He'll still get up from time to time and wag his head and let us know how tired he is, but it's not a complaint or excuse or warning any more - he's finished with that; it's like an old clock that won't tell time but won't stop neither, with the hands bent out of shape and the face bare of numbers and the alarm bell rusted silent, an old worthless clock that just keeps ticking and cuckooing without meaning nothing.
Still he sometimes gets up and shakes her head, and tells how tired he was, but that's not a complaint, not an excuse and not a warning - it's over; it's like an old clock that time did not show, but still, the arrows are bent, God knows how, the numbers on the dial have worn off, the call is stalled from rust - old watch, it is still ticking and wheezing, but without any sense.

And every time he hit the bottle, not drinking from it - it sucked the life out of him.

Alone only increases a feeling of separation.