My doctor is nice; every time I see him, I’m ashamed of what I think of doctors in general.

Ultimately, you are his physician, which is probably why he is about to die.

Every physician almost hath his favorite disease.

And yet she can tell he is visited by fears so immense, so multiple, that she can almost feel the terror pulsing inside him. As though some beast breathes all the time at the windowpanes of his mind.

Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promises only; pain we obey.

Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.

A man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

The good physician treats the disease; the great physician treats the patient who has the disease.

The problem for a Paracelsian physician like me is that I see diseases as disguises in which people present me with their wretchedness.

Yes, he said in a voice indescribable, you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.

How? asked the staring Professor. Why?

Because I am afraid of him, said Syme; and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.

The specialist is a man who fears other subjects.

He whom many fear must needs fear many.

He who fears he will suffer, already suffers from his fear.

The philosopher treats a question; like an illness.