"Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!" - unam.

So I sit on the bench again, and one of the other guys waiting sidles up to me and
says, "Gee! You were in there twenty­five minutes! The other guys were in there only
five minutes!"
"Yeah."
"Hey," he says. "You wanna know how to fool the psychiatrist? All you have to
do is pick your nails, like this."
"Then why don't you pick your nails like that?"
"Oh," he says, "I wanna get in the army!"
"You wanna fool the psychiatrist?" I say. "You just tell him that!"
After a while I was called over to a different desk to see another psychiatrist.
While the first psychiatrist had been rather young and innocent­looking, this one was
gray­haired and distinguished­looking ­­ obviously the superior psychiatrist. I figure all
of this is now going to get straightened out, but no matter what happens, I'm not going to
become friendly.
The new psychiatrist looks at my papers, puts a big smile on his face, and says,
"Hello, Dick. I see you worked at Los Alamos during the war."
"Yeah."
"There used to be a boys' school there, didn't there?"
"That's right."
"Were there a lot of buildings in the school?"
"Only a few."
Three questions ­­ same technique ­­ and the next question is completely different.
"You said you hear voices in your head. Describe that, please."
"It happens very rarely, when I've been paying attention to a person with a foreign
accent. As I'm falling asleep I can hear his voice very clearly. The first time it happened
was while I was a student at MIT. I could hear old Professor Vallarta say, 'Dee­a dee­a
electric field­a.' And the other time was in Chicago during the war, when Professor Teller
was explaining to me how the bomb worked. Since I'm interested in all kinds of
phenomena, I wondered how I could hear these voices with accents so precisely, when I
couldn't imitate them that well. . . Doesn't everybody have something like that happen
once in a while?"
The psychiatrist put his hand over his face, and I could see through his fingers a
little smile (he wouldn't answer the question).
Then the psychiatrist checked into something else. "You said that you talk to your
deceased wife. What do you say to her?"
I got angry. I figure it's none of his damn business, and I say, "I tell her I love her,
if it's all right with you!"
After some more bitter exchanges he says, "Do you believe in the supernormal?"
I say, "I don't know what the 'supernormal' is."
"What? You, a Ph.D. in physics, don't know what the supernormal is?"
"That's right."
"It's what Sir Oliver Lodge and his school believe in."
That's not much of a clue, but I knew it. "You mean the supernatural."
"You can call it that if you want."
"All right, I will."
"Do you believe in mental telepathy?"