Dorothy: Dr. Budd, I came to you sick. Sick and scared. And you dismissed me. You didn't have the answer. And instead of saying, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with you," you made me feel crazy, like I had made it all up. You dismissed me. You made me feel like a child, a fool, a neurotic who was wasting your precious time. Is that- Is that your caring profession? Is that healing? No one deserves that kind of treatment, Dr. Budd, no one. I suspect, had I been a man, I might have been taken a little bit more seriously and not told to go to a hairdresser.
Dr. Budd: Look, I am not going to sit here anymore-
Helen Budd: Shut up, Lewis.
Dorothy: I don't know where you doctors lose your humanity, but you lose it. You know, if all of you at the beginning of your careers could get very sick and scared for a while, you'd probably learn more from that than anything else. You'd better start listening to your patients. They need to be heard. They need caring, they need compassion. They need attending to. You know, someday, Dr. Budd, you're gonna be on the other side of the table, and as angry as I am, and as angry as I always will be, I still wish you a better doctor than you were to me.

Blanche: What day is this? I've been up for 72 hours. I had a breakthrough. I discovered a new form of writing. I will go down in history. First I wrote all day, then I tore it all up, and then that night it came to me, and the words poured forth like liquid from a stream. It was almost a mystical experience. Somebody else was writing this.
Rose: Who?
Blanche: Everyman. This is everyman's work. It's all gold. Just open it anywhere and the magic will touch you. But I'm so tired. I must sleep. And I cannot sleep. I am too tired to sleep. I will never sleep again. I may die from this. What am I gonna do? My God, I'm hallucinating. I see little balls of sunshine in a bag. Does this mean something?
Rose: Those are egg yolks, Blanche.
Blanche: My brain's gone. My body is limp with exhaustion. I suppose all the greats knew this feeling. And the thing is, after all this I've decided not to sell my book. It's too good to sell. They can publish it after I'm dead, like Vincent van Gogh.
Dorothy: Van Gogh was a painter, Blanche.
Blanche: Whatever. It's all the same thing. We're all artists. We're all misunderstood. He cut off his hair. Maybe I'll cut off mine.
Dorothy: He cut off his ear.
Blanche: I have too many earrings.

Blanche: Rose, you're my friend so I'm gonna let you read a few pages, but you have to give me your word you won't tell anyone. Your word.
Rose: Of course. And then will you sleep?
Blanche: Whatever. I can trust you, I know I can. You're from Minnesota. People from Minnesota are honest. They don't lie. What could you possibly find to lie about on a farm? Must be some state. Lots of lakes and nice, pale people. I'd drown myself. Read, Rose. Don't talk. I must publish a guide to go with my book. It's too full of references people could not possibly understand. It will be taught in universities. Rose, what is this? Yellow eyeballs are staring at me.
Rose: Those are egg yolks, Blanche. Blanche, you are exhausted.
Blanche: You have to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. My God, what a wonderful line. Oh! I'm getting so good I can't stand it. I ought to write that in my book, that line.