Well now, there’s a remedy for everything except death.

I am dying with the help of too many physicians.

Let me recommend the best medicine in the world: a long journey, at a mild season, through a pleasant country, in easy stages.

The best physician is he who can distinguish the possible from the impossible.

If a patient is poor, he is committed to a public hospital as “psychotic”; if he can afford the luxury of a private sanitarium, he is put there with the diagnosis of “neurasthenia”; if he is wealthy enough to be isolated in his own home under constant watch of nurses and physicians, he is simply an indisposed “eccentric.”

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.

In the name of Hippocrates doctors have invented the most exquisite form of torture ever known to man: survival.

Doctors don’t know everything really. They understand matter, not spirit. And you and I live in spirit.

It is not a case we are treating; it is a living, palpitating, alas, too often suffering fellow creature.

All pain is one malady with many names.

No families take so little medicine as those of doctors, except those of apothecaries.

Keep away from physicians. It is all probing and guessing and pretending with them. They leave it to nature to cure in her own time, but they take the credit. As well as very fat fees.

Be temperate in wine, in eating, girls, and sloth, or the Gout will seize you.