The WTF? Book Club discussion

One of the defining works of the 1960's Kesey's novel, based on his own experiences of working in a mental insitute would go on to become an equally important film in 1975, which in many ways has helped maintain the popularity of the book with Jack Nicholson giving an oscar winning turn as the anarchic McMurphy.

Unlike the film version the book takes the view point of chief Bromden, the seemingly mute half-Indian patient who witnesses and understands McMurphy's attempt to do battle with with the powers which control the ward including the tyrannical Big Nurse Ratched. Does this view point work better for the book, than the film's using McMurphy's view point?

Considering that McMurphy see's a stay in the mental ward as an easy alternative to his sentence on a work farm, how genuine can we believe his friendships with the other inmates actually are or are they just a cover for his alternative plans for the ward?

Should we consider McMurphy a natural anarchist, the sort of person who constantly needs some level of chaos in their lives? Or is he more of a christ figure as he sacrifices himself for the good of the others?

Does Kesey's experience of working within a mental institute add a level of authenticity to the story, especially considering how Nurse Ratched maintains order on the ward. Should we believe because of his past that such characters exsist or is she just a work of fiction?

What is the title's significance?

The floor is now open for you to discuss

The story is told by chief Bromden he says:
'A bluetick hound bays out there in the fog, running scared and lost because he can't see. No tracks on the ground but the ones he's making, and he sniffs in every direction with his cold rubber nose and picks up no scent but his own fear. Fear burning down into him like steam.
It's gonna burn me just that way, finally telling about all this, about the hospital, and her, and the guys-and Mcmurphy.'

The dream like quality of the narrative is beautiful, as chief Bromden struggles to keep still inside the fog knowing when it clears he will be at the shock shop:
'I'd wander for days in the fog, then there'd be that door. The men standing in line like zombies among shiny copper wires and tubes pulsing light, and the bright scrape of arcing electricity.
I'd take my place in the line and wait my turn at the table'

The big nurse in chief Bromdem's eyes is evil, she controls the doctors and junior staff:
'The three daytime black boys she acquires after years of testing and rejecting thousands. They come at her in a long black row of sulky, big-nosed masks, hating her and her chalk doll whiteness from the first look they get.
She appraises them and their hate for a month or so, then lets them go because they don't hate enough.'

The battle begins between Mcmurphy and big nurse, a battle he's destined to lose, ending with his lobotomy.
When big nurse returns him to the ward to show the other patients how she's won, they refuse to believe it's him, and that might Chief Bromdem suffocates his vacant body with a pillow:
'I was only sure of one thing: he wouldn't have left something like that sit in the day room with his name tacked on for twenty or thirty years so the big nurse could use it as an example of what can happen if you buck the system.

Finally chief Bromdem finds the power to leave:
'I ran across the grounds in the direction I remember seeing the dog go. I remember taking huge strides as I ran, seeming to step and float a long ways before my foot struck the earth. I felt like I was flying. Free.'

The character of Mcmurphy is intriguing, he seems to act as a catalyst, to bring about change and liberation, and yes, someone so irreverent and passionate was destined to sacrifice himself for the good of others, perhaps without even understanding why.
What I love most about this novel is the passages of prose woven into the narrative:

'I look close at him because I figure it's the last time I'll ever see him.
His face is enormous, almost more than I can bear. Every hair and wrinkle of him is big, as though I was looking at him with one of those microscopes.
I see him so clear I see his whole life. The face is sixty years of south-west army camps, rutted by iron-rimmed caisson wheels, worn to the bone by thousands of feet on two day marches.
He holds out his long hand and brings it up infront of his eyes and squints into it, brings up the other hand and underlines the words with a finger wooden and varnished the colour of gunstock by nicotine.
His voice deep and slow and patient, and I see the words come out dark and heavy over his brittle lips when he reads.
Now...The flag is...Ah-mer-ica. America is... the plum. The peach. The wah-ter-mel-on. America is... the gumdrop. The pump-kin seed. America is...tell-ah-vision.'

Very sad, very funny, and moving, a good read.