Quotes About Illness

The body after long illness is languid, passive, receptive of sweetness, but too weak to contain it.

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.

Shakespeare is getting flyblown; a paternal government might well forbid writing about him, as they put his monument at Stratford beyond the reach of scribbling fingers. With all this buzz of criticism about, one may hazard one's conjectures privately, make one's notes in the margin; but, knowing that someone has said it before, or said it better, the zest is gone. Illness, it its kingly sublimity, sweeps all that aside and leaves nothing but Shakespeare and oneself.

There is a certain 'beauty' in illness - one is alone - one reads - one thinks - one sees only the people one like seeing. (27 (?)/5/1928) - From a Letter to Duncan Grant)

quién va a exigir juicio crítico a un enfermo o sensatez al postrado en la cama?

En la enfermedad, parece que las palabras poseen una cualidad mística. Captamos lo que está más allá de su significado superficial, deducimos instintivamente (...)

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

I'm a radiant void. I'm convalescing after a long and dreadful illness…I cannot brood over broken hearts, mine is too recently mended […]

Do you think they'll find a cure before I. . . How strange that sounds when you say it out loud for the first time.

Happy that the illness had left no trace on Dirmit, Atiye let her go outside that very day. But Atiye was wrong. The illness had marked her daughter in other ways. After the notch disease, Dirmit was left with certain traits that passed unnoticed. She kept everything she did as secred, and started to take pity on odd things.

After school I all but ran to Gran's and it was funny how even with her so sick, being with her could still make me feel safe.

A Man's illness is his private territory and, no matter how much he love you and how close you are, you stay an outsider. You are healthy.

A man's illness is his private territory and, no matter how much he loves you and how close you are, you stay an outsider. You are healthy.

But I am beginning to understand about the dignity and the art of wigs and the makeup. This small, everyday attentiveness of eyebrow pencils is perhaps a picture of the very sort of bodily care our embodied God would have us cultivate, weather in illness or wellness, whether our bodies are in the throes of ecstasy or the throes of pain.

When I was a girl I loved fevers and flus and the muzzy feeling of a head cold, all these states carrying with them the special accoutrements of illness, the thermometer with its lovely line of red mercury, the coolness of ice chips pressed to a sweaty forehead, and best of all, a distant mother coming to your bedside with tea.

In illness, the world went wonderfully warped, high temperatures turning your pillow to a dune of snow and bringing the night sky, with its daisy-sized stars, so close to your bed you could touch it, and taste the moon.

But what happens if such a patient, say myself, for instance, has rarely if ever experienced a normal state of functioning? What happens if such a patient has spent much of her life in mental hospitals, both pursuing and being pursued by one's illness after another? What happens if "regular life" to such a person has always meant cutting one's arms, or gagging?

If you have been sick for a long, long time, Prozac may make you high. It probably won't make you, never quite managed to be a part of, but a world, nevertheless, that you at first fit into with the precision of a key to a lock or a neurotransmitter to its receptor.

It should come as no surprise that this was so, that after years of illness my remission on that first drugged day – confusing, yes, portending loss, yes – was also a blessing, pure and simple. No, not a blessing, a redemption, both bright and blinding, heaven opening me up, letting me in. Good morning.

If you have been sick for long, long time, Prozac may make you high. It probably won't make you high the way pot and acid do; it will make you high by returning you to a world you've forgotten or never quite managed to be a part of, but a world nevertheless, that you at first fit into with the precision of a key to a lock or a neurotransmitter to its receptor.

Once, in the hospital, a social worker drew her a geneagram, a tree with every family member's name and diagnosis boxed in its branches, and the tree went on and on, out and out in flaring illness, and she laughed and said, "The simplest cure might be to just cut it down.

Illness was a temporary respite, a release from the demands of an alienating world.

Nietzsche tells us that modern consciousness is sick: "Art is reduced to mere amusement, and governed by empty concepts.

There was no fatal illness, only the exhaustion of endless grieving.