-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Кен Кизи
-
- Пролетая над гнездом кукушки
-
- Стр. 6/246
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
Easy
now
,
do
n't
smudge
'
em
;
we
got
lots
of
time
,
lots
of
games
ahead
of
us
.
I
like
to
use
my
deck
here
because
it
takes
at
least
a
week
for
the
other
players
to
get
to
where
they
can
even
see
the
suit
...
.
"
He
's
got
on
work-farm
pants
and
shirt
,
sunned
out
till
they
're
the
color
of
watered
milk
.
His
face
and
neck
and
arms
are
the
color
of
oxblood
leather
from
working
long
in
the
fields
.
He
's
got
a
primer-black
motorcycle
cap
stuck
in
his
hair
and
a
leather
jacket
over
one
arm
,
and
he
's
got
on
boots
gray
and
dusty
and
heavy
enough
to
kick
a
man
half
in
two
.
He
walks
away
from
Cheswick
and
takes
off
the
cap
and
goes
to
beating
a
dust
storm
out
of
his
thigh
.
One
of
the
black
boys
circles
him
with
the
thermometer
,
but
he
's
too
quick
for
them
;
he
slips
in
among
the
Acutes
and
starts
moving
around
shaking
hands
before
the
black
boy
can
take
good
aim
.
The
way
he
talks
,
his
wink
,
his
loud
talk
,
his
swagger
all
remind
me
of
a
car
salesman
or
a
stock
auctioneer
--
or
one
of
those
pitchmen
you
see
on
a
sideshow
stage
,
out
in
front
of
his
flapping
banners
,
standing
there
in
a
striped
shirt
with
yellow
buttons
,
drawing
the
faces
off
the
sawdust
like
a
magnet
.
"
What
happened
,
you
see
,
was
I
got
in
a
couple
of
hassles
at
the
work
farm
,
to
tell
the
pure
truth
,
and
the
court
ruled
that
I
'm
a
psychopath
.
And
do
you
think
I
'm
gon
na
argue
with
the
court
?
Shoo
,
you
can
bet
your
bottom
dollar
I
do
n't
.
If
it
gets
me
outta
those
damned
pea
fields
I
'll
be
whatever
their
little
heart
desires
,
be
it
psychopath
or
mad
dog
or
werewolf
,
because
I
do
n't
care
if
I
never
see
another
weedin
'
hoe
to
my
dying
day
.
Now
they
tell
me
a
psychopath
's
a
guy
fights
too
much
and
fucks
too
much
,
but
they
ai
n't
wholly
right
,
do
you
think
?
I
mean
,
whoever
heard
tell
of
a
man
gettin
'
too
much
poozle
?
Hello
,
buddy
,
what
do
they
call
you
?
My
name
's
McMurphy
and
I
'll
bet
you
two
dollars
here
and
now
that
you
ca
n't
tell
me
how
many
spots
are
in
that
pinochle
hand
you
're
holding
do
n't
look
.
Two
dollars
;
what
d'ya
say
?
God
damn
,
Sam
!
ca
n't
you
wait
half
a
minute
to
prod
me
with
that
damn
thermometer
of
yours
?
"
The
new
man
stands
looking
a
minute
,
to
get
the
set-up
of
the
day
room
.
One
side
of
the
room
younger
patients
,
known
as
Acutes
because
the
doctors
figure
them
still
sick
enough
to
be
fixed
,
practice
arm
wrestling
and
card
tricks
where
you
add
and
subtract
and
count
down
so
many
and
it
's
a
certain
card
.
Billy
Bibbit
tries
to
learn
to
roll
a
tailor-made
cigarette
,
and
Martini
walks
around
,
discovering
things
under
the
tables
and
chairs
.
The
Acutes
move
around
a
lot
.
They
tell
jokes
to
each
other
and
snicker
in
their
fists
(
nobody
ever
dares
let
loose
and
laugh
,
the
whole
staff
'd
be
in
with
notebooks
and
a
lot
of
questions
)
and
they
write
letters
with
yellow
,
runty
,
chewed
pencils
.
They
spy
on
each
other
.
Sometimes
one
man
says
something
about
himself
that
he
did
n't
aim
to
let
slip
,
and
one
of
his
buddies
at
the
table
where
he
said
it
yawns
and
gets
up
and
sidles
over
to
the
big
log
book
by
the
Nurses
'
Station
and
writes
down
the
piece
of
information
he
heard
--
of
therapeutic
interest
to
the
whole
ward
,
is
what
the
Big
Nurse
says
the
book
is
for
,
but
I
know
she
's
just
waiting
to
get
enough
evidence
to
have
some
guy
reconditioned
at
the
Main
Building
,
overhauled
in
the
head
to
straighten
out
the
trouble
.
The
guy
that
wrote
the
piece
of
information
in
the
log
book
,
he
gets
a
star
by
his
name
on
the
roll
and
gets
to
sleep
late
the
next
day
.
Across
the
room
from
the
Acutes
are
the
culls
of
the
Combine
's
product
,
the
Chronics
.
Not
in
the
hospital
,
these
,
to
get
fixed
,
but
just
to
keep
them
from
walking
around
the
streets
giving
the
product
a
bad
name
.
Chronics
are
in
for
good
,
the
staff
concedes
.
Chronics
are
divided
into
Walkers
like
me
,
can
still
get
around
if
you
keep
them
fed
,
and
Wheelers
and
Vegetables
.
What
the
Chronics
are
--
or
most
of
us
--
are
machines
with
flaws
inside
that
ca
n't
be
repaired
,
flaws
born
in
,
or
flaws
beat
in
over
so
many
years
of
the
guy
running
head-on
into
solid
things
that
by
the
time
the
hospital
found
him
he
was
bleeding
rust
in
some
vacant
lot
.
