"I went to a psychiatrist once. I was doing something that had become a pattern in my life, and I thought, Well, I should go talk to a psychiatrist. When I got into the room, l asked him, "Do you think that this process could, in any way, damage my creativity?" And he said, "Well, David, I have to be honest: it could." And I shook his hand and left."

I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous - everyone hasn't met me yet.

When I visited my psychiatrist he told me that he wanted me to book myself into hospital the next day. I was hesitant. I kept thinking, 'Dr, I need to get back to work tomorrow'. I was also scared that people wouldn’t understand and that I would be away with no support

Take it easy, Norman. When the psychiatrist goes crazy, it's a bad sign.

I was doing something that had become a pattern in my life, and I thought, Well I should go talk to a psychiatrist. When I got into the room, I asked him, 'Do you think that this process could, in any way, damage my creativity?', And he said ´Well, David, I have to be honest; it could´ And I shook his hand and left.

A psychiatrist once diagnosed my troubles as “an abdication of will.”

This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, Doc, my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken. The doctor says, Well, why don’t you turn him in? And the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. Well I guess that’s pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd but I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.

It reminds me of that old joke- you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. I guess that's how I feel about relationships. They're totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs.

I was once thrown out of a mental hospital for depressing the other patients.

Good Lord, I went in for a check up the other day and the doctor said "You need to lay off eggs." I go "Is my cholesterol bad?" He said "No, your farts are killing everybody in this room."

If you are not a psychiatrist, stay away from idiots.

I told my doctor I broke my arm in two places. He told me to keep out of those places.

I'm inclined to believe you need the psychiatrist.

Questions, always questions. They didn't wait for the answers, either. They rushed on, piling questions on questions, covering every moment with questions, blocking off every sensation but the thorn stab of questions. And orders. If it wasn't, "Lou, what is this?" it was, "Tell me what this is." A bowl. The same bowl, time after time. It is a bowl and it is an ugly bowl, a boring bowl, a bowl of total and complete boring blandness, uninteresting. I am uninterested in that uninteresting bowl. If they aren't going to listen, why should I talk? I know better than to say that out loud. Everything in my life that I value has been gained at the cost of not saying what I really think and saying what they want me to say. In this office, where I am evaluated and advised four times a year the psychiatrist is no less certain of the line between us than all the others have been. Her certainty is painful to see, so I try not to look at her more than I have to. That has its own dangers; like the others, she thinks I should make more eye contact than I do. I glance at her now. Dr. Fornum, crisp and professional, raises an eyebrow and shakes her head not quite imperceptibly. Autistic persons do not understand these signals; the book says so. I have read the book, so I know what it is I do not understand. What I haven't figured out yet is the range of things they don't understand. The normals. The reals. The ones who have the degrees and sit behind the desks in comfortable chairs. (beginning of Chapter One)