Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Thisscrambleofactionholdsforaspace,asecondthereonthesea—themenyammeringandstrugglingandcussingandtryingtotendtheirpoleswhilewatchingthegirl;thebleeding,crashingbattlebetweenScanlonandmyfishateverybody’sfeet;thelinesalltangledandshootingeverywhichwaywiththedoctor’sglasses-on-a-stringtangledanddanglingfromonelinetenfeetoffthebackoftheboat,fishstrikingattheflashofthelens,andthegirlcussingforallshe’sworthandlookingnowatherbarebreasts,onewhiteandonesmartingred—andGeorgetakeshiseyeoffwherehe’sgoingandrunstheboatintothatlogandkillstheengine.

           WhileMcMurphylaughs.Rockingfartherandfartherbackwardagainstthecabintop,spreadinghislaughoutacrossthewater—laughingatthegirl,attheguys,atGeorge,atmesuckingmybleedingthumb,atthecaptainbackatthepierandthebicycleriderandtheservice-stationguysandthefivethousandhousesandtheBigNurseandallofit.Becauseheknowsyouhavetolaughatthethingsthathurtyoujusttokeepyourselfinbalance,justtokeeptheworldfromrunningyouplumbcrazy.Heknowsthere’sapainfulside;heknowsmythumbsmartsandhisgirlfriendhasabruisedbreastandthedoctorislosinghisglasses,buthewon’tletthepainblotoutthehumornomore’nhe’llletthehumorblotoutthepain.

           InoticeHardingiscollapsedbesideMcMurphyandislaughingtoo.AndScanlonfromthebottomoftheboat.Attheirownselvesaswellasattherestofus.