One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Author: Ken Kesey

Rating: ⭐ 2/5

Date Read: 2016/02/18

Pages: 325

When people find out I have degrees in psychology, they tend to make a few assumptions. First, they ask me if I’m “psychoanalyzing” them, which I’m not; not only because psychoanalysis is pseudoscience (only English majors love Freud, for reasons I’m sure Freud would trace back to genitals, their own or someone else’s), but also because I’m generally more interested in my own cleverness than other people’s problems. Second, they figure I’ve been trained as a clinician, as if I have a secret life as a therapist that no one knows about (I don’t). Finally, they ask me about books they’ve read that they’re sure I’ve read. Usually, they’re just interested in self-help drivel, but sometimes they want to talk about this book.

Which is interesting, because this is not a book about psychology, in the same way that Animal Farm is not a book about agriculture. This is a novel by Ken Kesey, who went to graduate school for creative writing and also did a lot of drugs. He spent a fair amount of time hanging out on a bus with Neal Cassady, The Grateful Dead, and the rest of the Merry Pranksters, dosing the communal Kool-Aid bowl with LSD. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is not supposed to be a realistic book about mental institutions (thank goodness, because the treatment people are getting in this book is completely unethical).

So what’s it about? The man, man. The man is always trying to put you down, tell you how to be. And you just listen to the man, man, because the man just has you in his grip. And you’ve got to question this stuff. Throw off the shackles of the society into which you’ve been inculcated and expand your mind, man.

(Note: Kesey seems to think you should really only question the things about the world that make it less fun and stuff. Minorities are for stereotyping, and women are for reminding you how emasculated you’ve become and/or fucking you. When I say “you” I’m assuming you are a white, heterosexual male, because you don’t even have to take drugs to realize that no one else really matters. Never mind the fact that the book is ostensibly written by a Native American, because that dude has no real voice and whatever, he’s half-white so it’s okay if we half care about him.)

Of course, the sexism is problematic: we’re not supposed to mind that the “hero” has raped a woman, and we’re supposed to cheer when the powerful women get put in their place. But my major issue with the book is the portrayal of mental health treatment as being mostly useless. Yes, things were not so great in the 50’s, yes, shock therapy was terrifying and, yes, lobotomies were horrendous. However, mental illness isn’t something you can just rebel your way out of: that’s a bit like praying away cancer. Mental illness is already under-diagnosed, and this is another cultural artifact that suggests that people should be wary of treatment.

Anyway, I thought this book was vaguely interesting but mostly juvenile and lacking in nuance. I’m finding myself having a hard time reading topical books from mid-century US writers, which is perhaps another indication that my generation inhabits a completely different world. And, not to seem like an ingrate, but I just can’t relate. I don’t have a strong rebellious streak, and I don’t possess an irrational fear of communists, and even though I know that big brother really could pay attention to anything I do, I also realize my group texts about where we should go for a beer after work are probably not getting much airtime at the NSA. Maybe this is the way my kids will feel when they go back and read books about student loan debt, denial of climate change, and inane iPhone apps. I hope so.

Then again, maybe this book truly has little substance, and maybe it will recede into the bowels of history. Maybe we should think of this book as evidence that drugs can make you paranoid enough to solipsistically conclude that everything is just a big conspiracy theory and you’re the only one who can figure out the charade. That, my friends, is actually an empirical question. Please, someone, pass the Kool-Aid.