The neurotic lies awake at night, composing letters to those he hates. He seldom thinks of dropping a line to those he loves.

Your children tell you casually years later what it would have killed you with worry to know at the time.

Few of us could bear to have ourselves for neighbors.

Neurotics have plenty of non-neurotic friends, but not for long.

I tell you this, and I tell you plain: What you have done, you will do again; You will bite your tongue, careful or not, Upon the already-bitten spot.

We wake in the night, to stereophonic silence.

Others settle for small rewards; the neurotic must always go for broke.