Patch Adams: So what now, huh? What do you want from me? Yeah, I could do it. We both know you wouldn't stop me. So answer me please. Tell me what you're doing. Okay, let's look at the logic. You create man. Man suffers enormous amounts of pain. Man dies. Maybe you should have had just a few more brainstorming sessions prior to creation. You rested on the seventh day. Maybe you should've spent that day on compassion.
Patch Adams: I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly without complexities or pride. I love you because I know no other way then this. So close that your hand, on my chest, is my hand. So close, that when you close your eyes, I fall asleep.
Patch Adams: You treat a disease, you win, you lose. You treat a person, I guarantee you, you'll win, no matter what the outcome.
Patch Adams: I wanted to become a doctor so I could serve others. And because of that, I've lost everything. But I've also gained everything.
Mitch Roman: I don't like you!
Patch Adams: Why don't you like me? You're a prick and I like you.
Patch Adams: All of life is a coming home. Salesmen, secretaries, coal miners, beekeepers, sword swallowers, all of us. All the restless hearts of the world, all trying to find a way home. It's hard to describe what I felt like then. Picture yourself walking for days in the driving snow; you don't even know you're walking in circles. The heaviness of your legs in the drifts, your shouts disappearing into the wind. How small you can feel, and how far away home can be. Home. The dictionary defines it as both a place of origin and a goal or destination. And the storm? The storm was all in my mind. Or as the poet Dante put it: In the middle of the journey of my life, I found myself in a dark wood, for I had lost the right path. Eventually I would find the right path, but in the most unlikely place.
Patch Adams: We can head on down to the maternity ward. You know those chicks put out.
Patch Adams: Our job is improving the quality of life, not just delaying death.