The Job Of The Writer Is To

The Truth Doesn't Have To Do With Cruelty, The Truth Has To Do With Mercy.

Then - As He Was Talking - A Set Of Tail-lights Going Past Lit Up Mcmurphy's Face, And The Windshield Reflected An Expression That Was Allowed Only Because He Figured It'd Be Too Dark For Anybody In The Car To See, Dreadfully Tired And Strained And Frantic, Like There Wasn't Enough Time Left For Something He Had To Do.

Because He Knows You Have To Laugh At The Things That Hurt You Just To Keep Yourself In Balance, Just To Keep The World From Running You Plumb Crazy. He Knows There's A Painful Side; He Knows My Thumb Smarts And His Girlfriend Has A Bruised Breast And The Doctor Is Losing His Glasses, But He Won't Let The Pain Blot Out The Humor No More'n He'll Let The Humor Blot Out The Pain.

He's The Sort Of Guy That Gets A Laugh Out Of People.

Never Before Did I Realize That Mental Illness Could Have The Aspect Of Power, Power. Think Of It: Perhaps The More Insane A Man Is, The More Powerful He Could Become. Hitler An Example. Fair Makes The Old Brain Reel, Doesn't It?