Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           McMurphywasteachingme.IwasfeelingbetterthanI’drememberedfeelingsinceIwasakid,wheneverythingwasgoodandthelandwasstillsingingkids’poetrytome.

           We’ddrovebackinlandinsteadofthecoast,togothroughthistownMcMurphy’dlivedinthemosthe’deverlivedinoneplace.DownthefaceoftheCascadehill,thinkingwewerelosttill...wecametoatowncoveredaspaceabouttwicethesizeofthehospitalground.Agrittywindhadblownoutthesunonthestreetwherehestopped.Heparkedinsomereedsandpointedacrosstheroad.

           "There.That’stheone.Lookslikeit’sproppedupouttatheweeds—mymisspentyouth’shumbleabode."

           Outalongthedimsix-o’clockstreet,Isawleaflesstreesstanding,strikingthesidewalktherelikewoodenlightning,concretesplitapartwheretheyhit,allinafenced-inring.Anironlineofpicketsstuckoutofthegroundalongthefrontofatangleweedyard,andonbackwasabigframehousewithaporch,leaningaricketyshoulderhardintothewindso’snottobesenttumblingawayacoupleofblockslikeanemptycardboardgrocerybox.Thewindwasblowingafewdropsofrain,andIsawthehousehaditseyesclenchedshutandlocksatthedoorbangedonachain.

           Andontheporch,hanging,wasoneofthosethingstheJapsmakeoutofglassandhangonstrings—ringsandclangsintheleastlittleblow—withonlyfourpiecesofglasslefttogo.Thesefourswungandwhippedandrunglittlechipsoffonthewoodenporchfloor.

           McMurphyputthecarbackingear.