But you must give him some sign, some sign that you love him... or he'll never be a man. All his life he'll feel guilty and alone unless you release him.

She wasn't happy, but then she wasn't unhappy. She wasn't anything. But I don't believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing. This vacant eye, listless hand, this damask cheek dusted like a doughnut with plastic powder, had to have a memory or a dream.

Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope. So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man - and the Word is with Men.

...no gift will ever buy back a man's love when you have removed his self-love.

There is one thing pleasantly unconfusing about medicine. The direction and the end are fixed and the patient never works backward.

He never fell, never slipped back, never flew.

I have thought that men and women should never come together except in bed. There is the only place where their natural hatred of each other is not so apparent.