Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Iwasn’tevenreallymethen;IwasjustbeingthewayIlooked,thewaypeoplewanted.Itdon’tseemlikeIeverhavebeenme.HowcanMcMurphybewhatheis?

           Iwasseeinghimdifferentthanwhenhefirstcamein;Iwasseeingmoretohimthanjustbighandsandredsideburnsandabroken-nosedgrin.I’dseehimdothingsthatdidn’tfitwithhisfaceorhands,thingslikepaintingapictureatOTwithrealpaintsonablankpaperwithnolinesornumbersanywhereonittotellhimwheretopaint,orlikewritingletterstosomebodyinabeautifulflowinghand.Howcouldamanwholookedlikehimpaintpicturesorwriteletterstopeople,orbeupsetandworriedlikeIsawhimoncewhenhegotaletterback?ThesewerethekindofthingsyouexpectedfromBillyBibbitorHarding.Hardinghadhandsthatlookedliketheyshouldhavedonepaintings,thoughtheyneverdid;Hardingtrappedhishandsandforcedthemtoworksawingplanksfordoghouses.McMurphywasn’tlikethat.Hehadn’tletwhathelookedlikerunhislifeonewayortheother,anymorethanhe’dlettheCombinemillhimintofittingwheretheywantedhimtofit.

           Iwasseeinglotsofthingsdifferent.IfiguredthefogmachinehadbrokedowninthewallswhentheyturnedituptoohighforthatmeetingonFriday,sonowtheyweren’tabletocirculatefogandgasandfoulupthewaythingslooked.ForthefirsttimeinyearsIwasseeingpeoplewithnoneofthatblackoutlinetheyusedtohave,andonenightIwasevenabletoseeoutthewindows.