Neurotic quarrels always have the same theme-song: Hate me and get it over with.

The neurotic feels as though trapped in a gas-filled room where at any moment someone, probably himself, will strike a match.

What you can't get out of, get into wholeheartedly.

All women are basically in competition with each other for a handful of eligible men.

We are never more self-righteous than when giving up what we should have shunned all along.

Beauty often fades, but seldom so swiftly as the joy it gives us.

The neurotic longs to touch bottom, so at least he won't have that to worry about anymore.