Illness (n.) signs the dream with its organ: the heart-sick dream of horrible death ending in terror at the moment of waking, the lung-sick of suffocation, crowding and flight.
Illness (n.) once recovered from often seems to the patient like a not unpleasant dream — and even during it he sometimes felt he was only caught up in a dream.
Illness (n.) can have as its motive a single insistence — that a certain brother must be proved right.
Illness (n.) teaches us our organs: painful sickness may be the model of how we come to have an idea of our body at all.
Illness (n.) can be a punishment the guilty self refuses to give up.
Illness (n.) banishes the lover's feelings, however strong, and replaces them suddenly with complete indifference — the egoism of the sick we find natural because we would do the same.
Illness (n.) can be a way of tormenting a loved one without expressing hostility openly — and the person it is aimed at is usually close at hand.
Illness (n.) can be an act of loyalty: a separated wife's neurosis protected her husband from gossip and kept her faithful to him.
Illness (n.) can be the reason rather than the obstacle: the girl said she could not marry while so ill — perhaps she fell so ill in order not to marry.
Illness (n.) is at bottom a practical, quantitative idea; theoretically we are all neurotic, since the conditions for symptoms exist in normal people too.
An Illness (n.) that lasts begins to behave like an independent organism, with something like an instinct of self-preservation.
Illness (n.) draws love back from the world into the aching organ; hypochondria does the same for an organ that only seems ill.
Illness (n.) is learned as a weapon in childhood, when falling ill brings back parental love; later it may be the only means of keeping one's position.
Illness (n.) never has unintended results: what looks like its consequence, a convenient inability to work, is really its motive.
Illness (n.) is marked above all by a complete severance of the two systems — the unconscious going its own way, almost incredibly deaf to influence.
Illness (n.) can be virtue's best guard: torn between desire and duty, a strictly raised woman may find no safer refuge than falling sick.
Illness (n.) is the most expensive thing in life, and stupidity; analysis is cheap by comparison.
Illness (n.) must be treated not as a thing of the past but as a force at work in the present, brought piece by piece into the room.
Illness (n.) must stop seeming contemptible to the patient and become an enemy worthy of his mettle, a part of himself worth understanding.
Illness (n.) of the neurotic kind is also an attempt at cure — an effort to reunite the ego split by trauma; but unaided it often ends with the split-off part overpowering the rest.