Without knowing the cause of illness, any treatment must be considered a guess.
Richard DiazIt means that the things that make us human often make us ill.
Jonathan Rosen(On his gravestone): "I told you I was ill".
Spike MilliganMots clés death comedy illness
But illness does not always write itself upon the body, the sickness I search for is hidden deep within the brain. Sometimes it rises to the surface. Sometimes the face betrays what the body conceals. But there moments, these betrayals, last no longer than an instant. They come, they go, they pass over the patient, darkening and brightening his face like clouds gusting over a meadow. How is it possible, then, to tell what he is suffering when the visible signs of his inner disorder appear so fleetingly upon his face?
Sarah Shun-lien BynumMots clés illness body conceal fleeting
Here they go cruising for a fortnight up in parts where everyone is dead of radiation, and all that they can catch is measles!
Nevil ShuteMots clés humor death illness disease measles radioactivity submarines
Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it.
Siri HustvedtMots clés language illness sickness
There's a phenomenology of being sick, one that depends on temperament, personal history, and the culture which we live in.
Siri HustvedtMots clés culture illness sickness personal-history
Sometimes there's nothing you can do. [...] Sometimes they don't have enough to fight with.
Tamora PierceMots clés death illness sickness helplessness briar flick henna
08/14/1025h. Dessert Competitions.
08/14/1315h. Illinois State Fair Infirmary; then motel; then Springfield Memorial Medical Center Emergency Room for distention and possible rupture of transverse colon (false alarm); then motel; incapacitated till well after sunset; whole day a washout; incredibly embarrassing, unprofessional; indescribable. Delete entire day.
It was a dead hole, smelling of synthetic leather and disinfectant, both of which odors seemed to emanate from the torn scratched material of the seats that lined the three walls. It smelled of the tobacco ashes which had flooded the two standing metal ashtrays. On the chromium lip of one, a cigar butt gleamed wetly like a chewed piece of beef. There was the smell of peanut shells and of the waxy candy wrappers that littered the floor, the smell of old newspapers, dry, inky, smothering and faintly like a urinal, the smell of sweat from armpits and groins and backs and faces, pouring out and drying up in the lifeless air, the smell of clothes—cleaning fluids imbedded in fabric and blooming horribly in the warm sweetish air, picking at the nostrils like thorns—all the exudations of the human flesh, a bouquet of animal being, flowing out, drying up, but leaving a peculiar and ineradicable odor of despair in the room as though chemistry was transformed into spirit, an ascension of a kind,
…Light issuing from spotlights in the ceiling was sour and blinding like a sick breath.
There was in that room an underlying confusion in the function of the senses. Smell became color, color became smell. Mute started at mute so intently they might have been listening with their eyes, and hearing grew preternaturally acute, yet waited only for the familiar syllables of surnames. Taste died, mouth opened in the negative drowsiness of waiting.
Mots clés illness hopeless hospitals
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