"Ignatius, don't you think maybe you'd be happy if you went and took you a little rest at C harity?"
  "Are you referrring to the psychiatric ward by any chance?" Ignatius demanded in a rage. "Do you think that I am insane? Do you suppose that some stupid psychiatrist could even attempt to fathom the workings of my psyche?"
  "You could just rest, honey. You could write some stuff in your little copybooks."   
"They would try to make me into a moron who liked television and new cars and frozen food. Don't you understand? Pychiatry is worse than communism. I refuse to be brainwashed. I won't be a robot!"
  "But, Ignatius, they help out a lot of people got problems."
  "Do you think that I have a problem?" Ignatius bellowed. "The only problem that those people have anyway is that they don't like new cars and hair sprays. That's why they are put away. They make the other members of the society fearful. Every asylum in this nation is filled with poor souls who simply cannot stand lanolin, cellophane, plastic, television, and subdivisions."
    -- O'Toole, Confederacy of Dunces