I've alluded to this before.
Last night I finished One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. I've read it before, but when a copy of it landed in my husband's hands (see Book Crossing for how that happened) I decided to read it again, since all I could remember from my high school reading of it was the ending.
But a good book is a bad thing. Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest's main character, Randle McMurphy, a good book cajoles you into abandoning your sensible routine, keeping you awake way past the prudent hour you normally go to sleep, and incites you to shirk your responsibilities until your formerly well oiled machine barely functions.
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