There was a small boy of Quebec Who was buried in snow to the neck: When they said 'Are you friz?' He replied 'Yes, I is - But we don't call this cold in Quebec!'
Disease can be seen as a call for personal transformation through metamorphosis. It is a transition from the death of your old self into the birth of your new.
If you could once make up your mind never to undertake more work ... than you can carry on calmly, quietly, without hurry or flurry ... and if the instant you feel yourself growing nervous and ... out of breath, you would stop and take a breath, you would find this simple common-sense rule doing for you what no prayers or tears could ever accomplish.
When I feel inclined to read poetry I take down my dictionary. The poetry of words is quite as beautiful as that of sentences. The author may arrange the gems effectively but their shape and lustre have been given by the attrition of ages.