One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

by Ken Kesey

What the Chronics are—or most of us—are machines with flaws inside that can’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.

The light lit his face up like a black jack o’lantern.

Omgggggg, we get it-they're black. Is it necessary to tell us in EVERY paragraph? The racism is unneeded.

They asked George where he learned to dock a boat that way, and we found out George’d not just run fishing boats but he’d also been captain of a PT boat in the Pacific and got the Navy Cross. “Shoulda gone into public office,” one of the loafers said. “Too dirty,” George told him.