Blanche: Oh, girls, let me tell you this wonderful idea I had. When I was a little girl, my mama told me my destiny. She said, "Peacock" - that was my nickname, Peacock. "You are destined for great things."
Sophia: Why "Peacock"?
Blanche: Because I was so beautiful. Anyway, she said-
Rose: I don't find peacocks so beautiful. They've got skinny necks. And they shriek.
Blanche: It doesn't matter, Rose.
Rose: And they attack chickens.
Blanche: I don't care about chickens, Rose. She didn't call me "Chicken," she called me "Peacock."
Rose: You look more like a chicken. When you're angry, your neck sticks out like a chicken.

Blanche: Well, now I know what my destiny is, Rose. I'm gonna be a novelist. A great romance novelist! That is my destiny. I shall become a great Southern writer, carrying on the tradition of the other great Southern writers like uh... All those others so famous they need not be mentioned. Oh, girls, it's gonna be so exciting. I am gonna make a fortune. And I won't even have to use my imagination. My life is a romance novel.
Sophia: Your life is a sports page.

Blanche: Listen. Tell me I can't do better than this in my sleep. "He grabbed her. She could feel his fingers pressing into her moist flesh. Her heart was pounding, her loins on fire. As he spun her around, her dress ripping open-" You know how many times I've experienced that?
Rose: Your loins have been on fire?
Blanche: Yes. "She melted"
Rose: Where exactly are your loins?
Blanche: Rose, it doesn't matter. Just listen. "She melted into his arms, faint now with the animal musk of him."
Rose: I didn't know people had loins. I've heard of loin of pork, but-
Sophia: In her case, the same thing.

Blanche: Oh, you know, I think in my novel, my heroine will be sick. Tragically sick, but snatched back from death by a doctor with the hands of a peasant and the soul of a poet. Oh, my God, I'm writing already. Somebody take this down.

Sophia: Dorothy, you've got to see another doctor. Raymond is not a specialist.
Dorothy: Yeah, but what kind of specialist do I need?
Blanche: Well, just call up Dr. Raymond and ask him. He'll refer you.
Rose: You have to, honey. You're getting sicker and sicker.
Blanche: Just like my heroine. Sicker and sicker. Though, of course, my heroine doesn't look like you. This is a romantic novel, not science fiction.
Dorothy: Remind me when I feel better to kick the crap out of her.

Dorothy: Look, all I can think about are my test results and how to keep this gown closed.
Dr. Stevens: Well, don't worry about it. You won't be needing it. Dorothy, get dressed. You're fine.
Dorothy: I beg your pardon?
Dr. Stevens: We've run every test known to man. They're all normal. You can get dressed, go home, enjoy your life.
Dorothy: Dr. Stevens, I was always healthy, and then I came down with this flu. I can't get rid of it. I've been sick for five months now. I have a constant sore throat, swollen glands, fevers. My muscles ache and are weak. I am totally exhausted all the time.
Dr. Stevens: I know, I know. You told me.
Dorothy: Well, maybe it bears repeating. Maybe you still think I'm Lorraine Maslansky.

Dr. Stevens: Look, Dorothy, can I ask you a personal question?
Dorothy: Yes.
Dr. Stevens: You're divorced?
Dorothy: Yes.
Dr. Stevens: How's your social life? Do you see men?
Dorothy: What in the world does seeing men have to do with anything?
Dr. Stevens: Well, Dorothy, we know for a fact that if people are not happy - and lonely people aren't - they get all kinds of symptoms. Depression, fatigue... Symptoms very much like the ones you describe.
Dorothy: Look, Dr. Stevens, I don't think you understand, so I'm gonna tell you again. I am at a point now where I am so exhausted that sometimes I cannot speak, literally cannot speak. There are days when I can't get out of bed. I- Raising my arms to wash my hair in the shower is too exhausting for me. I can't even do that. I have heart palpitations. I can't concentrate. I forget things. I- I get confused.

Rose: We never had a barbecue in St. Olaf after the tragedy.
Dorothy: I guess we have to ask.
Sophia: No, we don't.
Dorothy: She'll work it in anyway. What tragedy, Rose?
Rose: I can't talk about it.
Dorothy: Fine.
Sophia: Good.
Rose: But it had to do with barbecuing elk, a big fire and someone who lost his balance.
Dorothy: Got it.
Sophia: Clear as a bell.

Blanche: Dorothy, maybe I ought to go to New York with you. New York is a writer's city. I could hang out at the Algonquin, talk to my colleagues, get the juices going.
Dorothy: Honey, I'm going just for two days to see a doctor. I've asked Rose to go with me.
Blanche: Rose? Why her?
Dorothy: She's comforting.
Blanche: And I'm not?
Sophia: You told me you were having a pedicure when your husband was dying.
Blanche: Well, of course I was, Sophia. It was the third Thursday of the month. If I'd cancelled, that would have been it for July and August when I'd be wearing open-toed sandals.
Sophia: Angel of mercy.
Blanche: Well, I didn't know he was gonna pick that precise hour to die. How could I know that?
Rose: Well, he was in a coma.
Blanche: Oh, he'd been in a coma for days.

Dr. Budd: So, what are you doing here? You've seen everybody. Nobody found anything wrong with you. And between their workups and mine, there are no more tests to run.
Dorothy: Yeah, but I know-
Dr. Budd: Look, Mrs. Zbornak. Your main complaint is you're tired. I get tired too. It's called getting old.
Dorothy: Dr. Budd, that's not what this is. I am sick. I've had to give up my job because I was too tired to do it.
Dr. Budd: How'd you get here?
Dorothy: I flew.
Dr. Budd: No, to my office.
Dorothy: A taxi.
Dr. Budd: And from the taxi?
Dorothy: What, how did I get from the taxi to your office?
Dr. Budd: Not a hard question.
Dorothy: I walked.
Dr. Budd: Right. You walked. You're not sick, Dorothy. The people I see can't walk. They can't swallow. Some of them can't breathe.