Apparently the mind is never too ill
to make jokes about psychoanalysis.

-I'm sorry. I'm a pig.
-I keep forgetting you're a patient.

So do I. When I hold you
like this I feel well.

Will you love me as much
when I'm normal?

-I'll be insane about you.
-I am normal.

At least there's nothing wrong with
me that a long kiss wouldn't cure.

I've never treated a guilt complex
like that before.

-We don't want to attract attention.
-Everybody's doing it.

-You both going?
-Yes, yes.

Don't read the paper.
Let's pick up where we left off.

Try to recall the first moment
you thought you were Edwardes.

-Darling, I've a confession to make.
-I'm listening.

As a doctor, you irritate me.
I'm here, swooning with love.
You ask me a question...

and I don't like you anymore.
Do you have to sit there smiling...

like some know-it-all

I can't help it, that's
what happens in analysis...

As the doctor begins to uncover
the truth...

the patient develops a fine hearty
hatred of the doctor.

You're going to hate me a great
deal before we're through.

-And you're going to like that?
-As a scientist, yes.

And if I biff you one, you'll
consider it a sort of diploma?

-Yes, but don't biff too hard.

I think we should go on
with our investigation.

-We have some new facts now.
-What facts?

You're a doctor, you were in an
accident, your hand was burned...

-and you were in Rome.
-I was never in Rome in my life.

You were either there,
or going there.

You remembered something no doubt
connected with burning your hand.

Rome, think of Rome.
Maybe Rome, ltaly.