Neurotics are sure that no one understands them, and they wouldn't have it any other way.
Men feel that women somehow drag them down, and women feel that way about men. It's possible that both are right.
Nobody knows the trouble we've seen-but we keep trying to tell them.
Others follow patterns; we alone are unpredictable.
Love requires a willingness to die; marriage, a willingness to live.
Women are never landlocked: they're always mere minutes away from the briny deep of tears.
Suburb: a place that isn't city, isn't country, and isn't tolerable.
Too much money is as demoralizing as too little, and there's no such thing as exactly enough.
People find it hard to be both comic and serious, though life manages it easily enough.
So long as God reveals Himself, or doesn't, He is behaving like God.
The soul may sleep and the body still be happy, but only in youth.
Women are the right age for just a few years; men, for most of their lives.
A love that lasts for twenty years may be better than love, but it isn't love.
Affairs are just as disillusioning as marriage, and much less restful.
Most of our diversions do not so much delay death as accustom us to it.
Not for nothing does the neurotic suffer - but not for anything very much, either.
Beauty often fades, but seldom so swiftly as the joy it gives us.
The neurotic longs to touch bottom, so at least he won't have that to worry about anymore.
People keep telling us about their love affairs, when what we really want to know is how much money they make and how they manage on it.
No woman wants to see herself too clearly.
What's for dinner is the only question many husbands ask their wives, and the only one to which they care about the answer.
There's only one person who needs a glass of water oftener than a small child tucked in for the night, and that's a writer sitting down to write.
The neurotic would like to trust his analyst - if only because he's paying him so much money. But he can't - because if the analyst really cared, he'd be doing it for nothing.
Neurotic quarrels always have the same theme-song: Hate me and get it over with.
The neurotic keeps minute track of his enemies; it is only his friends he is careless about.
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