Madness Quotes - Page 12

He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it... he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice.

The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best. You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself.

It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed

No one knows if I'm dying to laugh or to crySo my verse hasthis almost imperceptible thrillLife is sad, the world is crazy!Not worth killing yourself for itNot for anyoneFor no loveLife goes on, indifferently!

They made us participate in their own madness,because we couldn't help but retrace their steps, rethink their thoughts, and see that none of them led to us.

Urges like the loony who enjoys strangling, it’s his buzz. He gets depressed when in seclusion, as he can’t strangle anybody so in the end he hangs himself in turmoil. Their brain can’t handle it. He wants so bad to kill, but they will not let him, so he has to kill himself.

But these people _announced_ their madness . . . they flaunted their insanity, they weren't half mad and half not, curled around a door frame. They were properly mad in the Shakespearean sense, talking sense when you least expected it.

I guess in this culture of ever-shortening attention spans, it's good if a song can lift us out of the madness, even if only for a few minutes.

The difference between a drunkard and a madman is 10%.

We all talk to ourselves. Those we call mad just talk a little louder.

All Mad"'He is mad as a hare, poor fellow, And should be in chains,' you say,I haven't a doubt of your statement, But who isn't mad, I pray?Why, the world is a great asylum, And the people are all insane,Gone daft with pleasure or folly, Or crazed with passion and pain.The infant who shrieks at a shadow, The child with his Santa Claus faith,The woman who worships Dame Fashion, Each man with his notions of death,The miser who hoards up his earnings, The spendthrift who wastes them too soon,The scholar grown blind in his delving, The lover who stares at the moon.The poet who thinks life a paean, The cynic who thinks it a fraud,The youth who goes seeking for pleasure, The preacher who dares talk of God,All priests with their creeds and their croaking, All doubters who dare to deny,The gay who find aught to wake laughter, The sad who find aught worth a sigh,Whoever is downcast or solemn, Whoever is gleeful and gay,Are only the dupes of delusions— We are all of us—all of us mad.

If there is no kindness with your rightness, then that is madness.

one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duelist at his foe, blindly seeking with a six-inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale. That captain was Ahab.

A true god surely cannot have been born of a girl, nor died on the gibbet, nor be eaten in a piece of dough... [or inspired] books, filled with contradictions, madness, and horror.

Oh, you are mad!" she exclaimed, quite out of patience."Possibly. But I like my madness.

I rehearsed Foucault's argument that the presence of madness on our doorstep is good for us, for it reminds us the life we live is only one among several human possibilities.

O God, I love you to the edge of madness, Venetia, but I'm not mad yet--not so mad that I don't know how disastrous it might be to you--to us both! You don't realize what an advantage I should be taking of your innocence!

When love is not madness, it is not love...

Internet makes you think that you have millions of friends, whereas you are your own friend.

Just as modern motorways have no room for ox-carts or wandering pedestrians, so modern society has little place for lives and ways that are too eccentric.

I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable", and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi".We will say then, that I am mad.

He was mad and plenty brave.

I wondered what sort of woman loved a man like that.

It's a myth that crazy people don't know they're crazy. Many of us are surely as capable of epiphany and introspection as anyone else, maybe more so. I suspect we spend far more time thinking about our thoughts than do sane people.

He stood up straight and looked the world squarely in the fields and hills. To add weight to his words he stuck the rabbit bone in his hair. He spread his arm out wide. "I will go mad!" he annouced.

What frightened me most was, I could no longer believe in my own life as a story. Everyone needs a story, a part to play in order to avoid the realization that life is without significance. How else do any of us survive? It’s what makes life bearable, even interesting. When it becomes neither, people say you’ve lost the plot. Or just lost it.

A man speaking sense to himself is no madder than a man speaking nonsense not to himself.

An intense life needs a touch of madness.

If you think that I am mad now, then take away my books, and you'll find I've completely gone insane!

Three causes especially have excited the discontent of mankind; and, by impelling us to seek remedies for the irremediable, have bewildered us in a maze of madness and error. These are death, toil, and the ignorance of the future..

Everyone has it's own great triumph, has he own story with sadness, madness and reverses. That's how we are build, few are the people which share their story, most cases because of shame.

When life is this dull, you have to invent purpose. Collecting torn-up newspaper gives you a hobby, provides an anchoring intimacy with your surroundings, keeps the streets clean. Or so you think. Then one day you wake up and realise that it was all a con: what you had thought was an escape from madness was in fact the arrival.

Dearest Cecilia, You’d be forgiven for thinking me mad, the way I acted this afternoon. The truth is I feel rather light headed and foolish in your presence, Cee, and I don’t think I can blame the heat.

ONLY' having the Gift, people appreciate this madness as Art. Everybody wants to have Art in their lives, but no body wants to have what the Art came out from in their lives...