While McMurphy laughs. Rocking farther and farther backward against the cabin top, spreading
his laugh out across the water—laughing at the girl, at the guys, at George, at me sucking my
bleeding thumb, at the captain back at the pier and the bicycle rider and the service-station guys and
the five thousand houses and the Big Nurse and all of it. 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 girl friend 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.
I notice Harding is collapsed beside McMurphy and is laughing too. And Scanlon from the
bottom of the boat. At their own selves as well as at the rest of us. And the girl, with her eyes still
smarting as she looks from her white breast to her red one, she starts laughing. And Sefelt and the
doctor, and all.
It started slow and pumped itself full, swelling the men bigger and bigger. I watched, part of
them, laughing with them—and somehow not with them. I was off the boat, blown up off the water
and skating the wind with those black birds, high above myself, and I could look down and see
myself and the rest of the guys, see the boat rocking there in the middle of those diving birds, see
McMurphy surrounded by his dozen people, and watch them, us, swinging a laughter that rang out
on the water in ever-widening circles, farther and farther, until it crashed up on beaches all over the
coast, on beaches all over all coasts, in wave after wave after wave.