The Neurotic S Notebook
I once lamented my bad temper to a doctor, and he said of his own: I accept it, like a withered arm.
It upsets women to be, or not to be, stared at hungrily.
The excesses of love soon pass, but its insufficiencies torment us forever.
A child born suspicious will rummage around in a box of identical candies.
We are always apologizing to some of our friends for some of our other friends.
Practically nothing can interrupt pain, but ecstasy suspends at the lightest footstep.
It is romantic to expect that things will get better, cynical to suppose that they will not, bestial not to care.
There are people you can’t give up till just once you’ve gained the advantage.
Most women would like to dress imaginatively, but they glare at any woman who does.
“I’ll go quietly,” says the psychotic. “Not I,” says the neurotic. “I’ll make a fuss.”
The fault we admit to is seldom the fault we have, but it bears a certain relationship to it, a somewhat similar shape, like that of a sleeve to an arm.
When we meet someone who genuinely sees good in everyone, it is hard to believe that he knows the same people we do.