Who cared if there was really any Being to pray to? What mattered was the sense of giving thanks and praise, the feeling of a humble and grateful heart.

There is among doctors, in acute hospitals at least, a presumption of stupidity in their patients.

It is easy to recollect the good things of life, the times when one's heart rejoices and expands, when everything is enfolded in kindness and love; it is easy to recollect the fineness of life-how noble one was, how generous one felt, what courage one showed in the face of adversity.

If we have youth, beauty, blessed gifts, strength, if we find fame, fortune, favor, fulfillment, it is easy to be nice, to turn a warm heart to the world.

I opened the door-what a freedom was this, for in the hospital there was no liberty to come and go-and stood, for a minute, in the soft air, savoring its fineness and the sweet smell of woods, and seeing in the distance the nightglow of London, city of cities, my mother.

First thing about being a patient-you have to learn patience.

I was set apart, we were set apart, we patients in white nightgowns, and avoided clearly, though unconsciously, like lepers.

Recovery was not to be seen as a smooth slope, but as a series of radical steps, each inconceivable, impossible, from the step below.

Idly, but not idle-for in leisure there is neither idleness nor haste-I watched the slow wreathing of smoke, into the still air, from my pipe.