The Silent Patient

by Alex Michaelides

He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.

Somehow grasping at vanishing snowflakes is like grasping at happiness; an act of possession which instantly gives way to nothing.

we are made up of different parts, some good, some bad; and that a healthy mind can tolerate this ambivalence and juggle both good and bad at the same time. Mental illness is precisely about a lack of this kind of integration – we end up losing contact with the unacceptable parts of ourselves.

‘Choosing a lover is a lot like choosing a therapist,’ Ruth had said. ‘We need to ask ourselves, is this someone who will be honest with me, listen to criticism, admit making mistakes, and not promise the impossible?’

‘About love. About how we often mistake love for fireworks – for drama and dysfunction. But real love is very quiet, very still. It’s boring, if seen from the perspective of high drama. Love is deep and calm – and constant.