There is, let us confess it (and illness is the great confessional), a childish outspokenness in illness; things are said, truths blurted out, which the cautious respectability of health conceals. About sympathy for example – we can do without it. That illusion of a world so shaped that it echoes every groan, of human beings […]
Every invalid is a prisoner.
God and the doctor, We both adore In time of trouble, Not before. Illness cured, Reverses righted, God is forgotten, The doctor slighted.
I enjoy convalescence. It’s the part that makes the illness worthwhile.
The common cold, if left untreated, lasts about two weeks. If treated with medication and rest, it lasts about fourteen days.
The surly bird gets the germ.
Fire, the sea, and woman; these are three ills.
A disease and its treatment can be a series of humiliations, a chisel for humility.
The difficulty with becoming a patient is that as soon as you get horizontal, part of your being yearns, not for a doctor, but for a medicine man.
I cannot believe that my illness is natural. I suspect Satan, and therefore I am the more inclined to take it lightly.