Quotes About Sickness

I'm sick and I'm tired and I don't know where to go or what to do. well, at lunchtime we all ride down the elevator together making jokes and laughing and eating the recooked food; first they buy it then they fry it then they reheat it then they sell it, can't be a germ left in there or a vitamin either.

After the fourth race, a $22.80 winner, he turned again and told Katherine, "I had that one, ten across." She turned away. "His face is yellow, Hank. Did you see his eyes? He's sick." "He's sick on the dream. We're all sick on the dream, that's why we're out here." "Hank, let's go.

I took the salt and pepper, seasoned the broth, broke the crackers into it, and spooned it into my illness.

Trying to be good made me sick.

Until the sickness Massasoit had directly ruled a community of several thousand and held sway over a confederation of as many as twenty thousand. Now his group was reduced to sixty people and the entire confederation to fewer than a thousand.

When the pride of intellect and caste is broken; when we grovel in the dust of humiliation; when sickness and sorrow come, and the shadow of death falls upon us, and there is no hope elsewhere,—we turn to God, who sometimes swallows the insult, and answers the appeal.

I have fallen into black despair as I watch myself age, as I watch people on Facebook I care about fall sick, physically and mentally, as I watch the sincere hopefulness of our young people wither, to be replaced by their callow and pathetic hopefulness. They don't know, but we do. They will know. And perhaps we will have the last laugh, if we live long enough to see them know what we know. One can only hope.

Abruptly, Eugene was touched with pity. For the first time he saw plainly that great Gant had grown old. The sallow face had yellowed and lost its sinew. The thin mouth was petulant. The chemistry of decay had left its mark. No, there was no return after this. Eugene saw now that Gant was dying very slowly. The vast resiliency, the illimitable power of former times had vanished. The big frame was breaking up before him like a beached ship. Gant was sick. He was old.

Maybe it's a crackpot theory, but in the aftermath of my sickness, I've often wondered if what we call insanity might be a biological response to mankind's consciousness of its own mortality, a way of unknowing what we know, a defense against the specter of nothingness and foreverness and intolerable finality.

Nostalgia—that's the basic sickness, and I never heard of a doctor who can cure it.

America "is no country for the infirm" because infirmity indicates a failure of enjoyment. To be sick is thus to be guilty. The sick illustrate the persistence of dissatisfaction and distance within the society of enjoyment. In acknowledging the sick, one acknowledges lack as well. Hence, like Roy Cohn, we opt instead for nonstop motion, for trying to eliminate the distance that the sick would introduce into the contemporary world.

then there is still more that Paul D could tell me and my brain would go right ahead and take it and never say, No thank you. I don't want to know or have to remember that. I have other things to do: worry, for example, about tomorrow, about Denver, about Beloved, about age and sickness not to speak of love. But her brain was not interested in the future. Loaded with the past and hungry for more, it left her no room to imagine, let alone plan for, the next day.

Two months surrounded by country women who loved mean had changed her. The women handled sickness as though it were an affront, an illegal, invading braggart who needed whipping. They didn't waste their time or the patient's with sympathy and they met the tears of the suffering with resigned contempt.

Two little girls who knew what nobody else in the world knew—how not to ask questions. How to believe what had to be believed. There was politeness in that reluctance and generosity as well. Is your mother sick too? No, she dances all night. Oh—and an understanding nod.

Oh, don't look so morally offended. Don't forget that if you get up on your high horse it's a long way to fall." He looked at his watch. "Do you know how late it is? Time for your next class." I lifted my chin. "You're right there," I said, trying to sound as icily scornful as possible. "My high horse and I must just go and find a toilet to throw up in first, because this conversation makes us sick to our stomachs.

They smelled death and it revolted them and shot the bile high in the throat.

Daniel, if she were blind and deaf, would be the sickly sweet smell of artificial strawberries and singed dough.

Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.

Fear is the most socially accepted sin in the Church. Fear is a serial killer, the prime suspect in the death of more people on the planet than all other diseases combined. Fear in every form has been linked to heart disease, cancer, autoimmune disorders, mental illness and many other sicknesses. Fear is the welcome mat to demonic activity in our lives.

How fragile life was, how fragile they were. Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between. It didn't matter that she was broken and ugly and sick. He loved her and she loved him, All her life she had waited -longed for - people to love her, but now she saw what she really mattered. She had known love, been blessed by it.

If love is a disease, I suppose I'm infected.

the lack of meaning in life is a soul-sickness whose full extent and import our age has not yet begun to comprehend.

you're a butterfly and butterflies are free to fly, fly away, high away, bye-bye), and I follow her each day because you are not a butterfly as long as she exists. You are not free to fly, fly away because she is a dangerous fucking pervert, photographing you, coveting you. Is there anything sicker than photographing someone while she's sleeping?

When he is sick and you stand by the bedside shaken with fear, when he sleeps and you lean over him held by the amazement of seeing this little boy who has your life, God is there, too; indeed all this love of yours is only God's love which you sense vaguely. He, the true father, is there; He is around and above and below the child; He is in his heart. You only love at all because God loves infinitely more.