Book : One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest - Kesey, Ken

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Ken Keseys bracing, inslightful novel about the meaning of madness and the value of self-reliance, and the inspiration for the new Netflix original series RatchedBoisterous, ribald, and ultimately shattering, Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is the seminal novel of the 1960s that has left an indelible mark on the literature of our time. Here is the unforgettable story of a mental ward and its inhabitants, especially the tyrannical Big Nurse Ratched and Randle Patrick McMurphy, the brawling, fun-loving new inmate who resolves to oppose her. We see the struggle through the eyes of Chief Bromden, the seemingly mute half-Indian patient who witnesses and understands McMurphy’s heroic attempt to do battle with the awesome powers that keep them all imprisoned. Review A work of genuine literary merit . . . What Mr. Kesey has done in his unusual novel is to transform the plight of a ward of inmates in a mental hospital into a glittering parable of good and evil.--The New York Times Book Review[A] brilliant first novel . . . a strong, warm story about the nature of human good and evil . . . Keysey has made his book a roar of protest against middlebrow societys Rules and the invisible Rulers who enforce them.--TimeThe final triumph of these men at the cost of a terrifying sacrifice should send chills down any readers back. . . . This novels scenes have the liveliness of a motion picture.--The Washington PostAn outstanding book . . . [Keseys] characters are original and real. . . . This is a tirade against the increasing controls over man and his mind, yet the author never gets on a soap box. Nor does he forget that there is a thin line between tragedy and comedy.--Houston Chronicle About the Author Ken Kesey was born in 1935 and grew up in Oregon. His books include Sometimes a Great Notion, Keseys Garage Sale, Demon Box, Sailor Song, and Last Go Round (with Ken Babbs). He passed away on November 10, 2001. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. SketchesPsychedelic sixties. God knows whatever that means it certainly meant far more than drugs, though drugs still work as a pretty good handle to the phenomena.I grabbed at that handle. Legally, too, I might add. Almost patriotically, in fact. Early psychedelic sixties...Eight oclock every Tuesday morning I showed up at the vets hospital in Menlo Park, ready to roll. The doctor deposited me in a little room on his ward, dealt me a couple of pills or a shot or a little glass of bitter juice, then locked the door. He checked back every forty minutes to see if I was still alive, took some tests, asked some questions, left again. The rest of the time I spent studying the inside of my forehead, or looking out the little window in the door. It was six inches wide and eight inches high, and it had heavy chicken wire inside the glass.You get your visions through whatever gate youre granted.Patients straggled by in the hall outside, their faces all ghastly confessions. Sometimes I looked at them and sometimes they looked at me. but rarely did we look at one another. It was too naked and painful. More was revealed in a human face than a human being can bear, face-to-face.Sometimes the nurse came by and checked on me. Her face was different. It was painful business, but not naked. This was not a person you could allow yourself to be naked in front of.Six months or so later I had finished the drug experiments and applied for a job. I was taken on as a nurses aide, in the same ward, with the same doctor, under the same nurse-and you must understand were talking about a huge hospital here! It was weird.But, as I said, it was the sixties.Those faces were still there, still painfully naked. To ward them off my case I very prudently took to carrying around a little notebook, to scribble notes. I got a lot of compliments from nurses: Good for you, Mr. Kesey. Thats the spirit. Get to know these men.I also s
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