Quotes About Mind

Words are the indices of the mind.

Dear Friend, — A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

[T]here are few mental exercises better than learning great poetry or prose by heart.

A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.

Pardon my sanity... in a world insane...

His madness foiled his reason...

I haven't lost my mind; I have a tape back-up somewhere.

Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. Good mental machinery ought to break its own wheels and levers, if any thing is thrust among them suddenly which tends to stop them or reverse their motion. A weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt itself; stupidity often saves a man from going mad.

All my life I've been trying to fit insane pieces into the puzzle of sanity. Or maybe the other way around.

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.

Somewhere in this process, you will come face to face with the sudden and shocking realization that you are completely crazy. Your mind is a shrieking, gibbering madhouse on wheels barreling pell-mell down the hill, utterly out of control and helpless. No problem. You are not crazier than you were yesterday. It has always been this way, and you just never noticed... So don't let this realization unsettle you. It is a milestone actually, a sign of real progress.

Meditation does not answer the questions of the mind, but it dissolves the very mind which creates many questions and confusion in our life.

If recollecting were forgetting Then I remember not. And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot!...

When Memory rings her bell, let all the thoughts run in.

...and torture myself with happy thoughts...

Work on Monday?! My mind is telling me no, but my wallet says yes.

The universe is merely a fleeting idea in God's mind — a pretty uncomfortable thought, particularly if you've just made a down payment on a house.

Music is said to be the rejoicing of the heart: Music comforteth the mind, and feareth the enemy.

Where gripping griefs the heart would wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, There music with her silver sound With speed is wont to send redress: Of troubled minds, in every sore, Sweet music hath a salve in store.

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads to madness. The poet is the Pandora of the mind.

The want of logic annoys. Too much logic bores. Life eludes logic, and everything that logic alone constructs remains artificial and forced. Therefore is a word the poet must not know, which exists only in the mind.

The true poem is the poet's mind; the true ship is the ship-builder.

Poetry is like an unexpected noise in the night: the creak of a door, the footstep on the porch, the soft scuffle of a moth against the screen, which rouses every sense to an instant alert. So comes poetry to the drowsy mind, which startles a moment, wonders, and returns to sleep.

Poetry was music. Poetry was not the thing said, but continual evocation of delicious suggestions of meaning. Poetry was an unconscious crystallization of glittering images upon the bare twig of metre. Poetry, at the nadir of this search for its essence, became the formless babble and vomit of the poet's subconscious mind.