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.

The job of the writer is to kiss no ass, no matter how big and holy and white and tempting and powerful.

You don't plow under the corn because the seed was planted with a neighbor's shovel.

You don't lead by pointing and telling people some place to go. You lead by going to that place and making a case.

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

Man is certain of nothing but his ability to fail. It is the deepest faith we have, and the unbeliever- the blasphemer, the dissenter- will stimulate in us the most righteous of furies.

Ocean, Ocean I'll beat you in the end.