He Who Marches Out Of Step Hears Another Drum

The Haight is just a place; the '60s was a spirit.

You can't really be strong until you see a funny side to things.

It's time to move on to the next step in the psychedelic revolution. We've reached a certain point, but we're not moving any more.

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.

You seem to forget, Miss Flinn, that this is an institution for the insane.

I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph.