Printer’s ink, when it spells out a doctor’s promise to cure, is one of the subtlest and most dangerous of poisons.
We are living at a time when creeds and ideologies vary and clash. But the gospel of human sympathy is universal and eternal.
With a few honorable exceptions the press of the United States is at the beck and call of the patent medicines. Not only do the newspapers modify news possibly affecting these interests, but they sometimes become their agents.
Ignorance and credulous hope make the market for most proprietary remedies.
Medicine would be the ideal profession if it did not involve giving pain.
Boredom and booze – cause and effect.
The path of the pursuer and the prey often run obscurely parallel.
Shortest straw pulls the skunk’s tail.
A wasted human being – that’s a sort of practical blasphemy, according to my religion.
I’m a suicide. I walked right spang over the edge of life and disappeared. Splash! Bubble-bubble! There goes nothing.
Success: a marvelous stimulant, bubbling with inspiration and incitement. But for all except the few who are strong and steadfast, there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison.
Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.
The ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort to sell something by yelling in print.
Shut your eyes to the medical columns of the newspapers, and you will save yourself many forebodings and symptoms.
With the exception of lawyers, there is no profession which, considers itself above the law so widely as the medical profession.
Any physician who advertises a positive cure for any disease, who issues nostrum testimonials, who sells his services to a secret remedy, or who diagnoses and treats by mail patients he has never seen, is a quack.
I’d sell my soul to the devil if he’d buy such a weakly, puny, piffling little soul, just really to live and be something besides a “thoroughly nice girl” for one short year.