Quotes About Madness

The historian rode out into the battlefield, almost desperate to rejoin the army. It was not a time to be alone, in the heart of slaughter, where every piece of wreckage or burned and torn flesh seemed to cry out silent outrage. Sites of battle held on to a madness, as if the blood that had soaked into the soil remembered pain and terror and held locked within it the echoes of screams and death cries.

Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment's thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No one. Unless you horses have a god.

Oh, we take you into slaughter without a moment's thought. And yes, some of you come to enjoy it, to lust for that cacophony, that violence, the reek of blood. And so we share with you, dear horse, our peculiar madness. But who judges us for this crime against you and your kind? No one. Unless your horses have a god.

The more nearly a man knows himself for what he is, the nearer he approaches wisdom. The more his imagination about himself diverges from what he actually is, the madder he becomes. –Rodney Collin

But what struck me was the book-madness of the place--books lay scattered across the unmade bed and the top of a battered-looking desk, books stood in knee-high piles on the floor, books were crammed sideways and right side up in a narrow bookcase that rose higher than my head and leaned dangerously from the wall, books sat in stacks on top of a dingy dresser. The closet door was propped open by a pile of books, and from beneath the bed a book stuck out beside the toe of a maroon slipper.

That afternoon he told me that the difference between human beings and animals was that human beings were able to dream while awake. He said the purpose of books was to permit us to exercise that faculty. Art, he said, was a controlled madness… He said books weren't made of themes, which you could write essays about, but of images that inserted themselves into your brain and replaced what you were seeing with your eyes.

Art, he said, was a controlled madness...He said that books weren't made of themes, which you could write essays about, but of images that inserted themselves into your brain and replaced what you were seeing with your eyes.

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

Age gives you a great sense of proportion. You can be very hard on yourself when you're younger but now I just think 'well everybody's absolutely mad and I'm doing quite well'.

A horse must be a bit mad to be a good cavalry mount, and its rider must be completely so.

I'm actually writing a short story about a photographer who went completely insane trying to take a close up photo of the horizon.

Now when a people has dictators, that is a symptom that they are running mad. They should be watched. I think they should be watched very closely. And later they should be prevented. Now think it is not a nation but an individual, now see, this is like he had a disease.

I'm very much afraid of being mad - that's my one fear.

Madness there, little other than I had expected, and grief and love, but mainly madness.

This was the true madness of the Strangeling. I realised there was no risk of attack, none at all. Danger here was a radically different concept to any that I was familiar with. It would be very easy to give oneself to the unreality of this place.

I could imagine that should a weak-willed traveller end up in Yhkey, they would quickly become so disoriented, they might forget where they were going and where they had come from. They might just become part of the madness, singing and dancing until they died.

His own madness was the last thing he feared.

He did not want to believe in ghosts, and he feared his own madness.

Whether she was mad or not, she had helped him in an hour of need.

He was conscious of the great weight of the keep above him, its brooding memories, its twisted bitterness in defeat: Old Caradore was insane, driven mad by all it had witnessed.

To a happy war!' laughter echoed with all the insane glee of an army of psychopaths.

Madness was only a handicap only if you couldn't control its irrationalities.

Her craziness was happily wed to her intellect. There are no reasonable geniuses in this world, I am convinced.

il domani potrà albeggiare solo con una certa dose di delirio e di follia.