Quotes About Madness

si Eugène Irténieff était un malade psychique, alors tous les hommes le sont également, et parmi eux les plus malades sont ceux qui voient les indices de la folie chez les autres et ne les voient point en eux-mêmes.

Am I mad because I see what others do not, or are they mad that do these things that I see?

As Euripides once said, 'Those whom God wishes to destroy he first drives mad.

I know writers have to be crazy. But more than that that, they have to get made and stay mad. If things don't make a writer mad, he'll end up writing Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottantail.

There are two ways to think about all this. One way is that life is absurd to start with and that only a mad man goes out and tries to change the world, to fight for good and against evil. The other way is that life is indeed absurd to start with and that it can be given meaning only if you live it for your ideals, visions and poetic truths, and despite all the skepticism of all the Sancho Panzas' in the world, saddle up whatever worn out horse you've got and go after those visions.

We are not mad. We are human. We want to love and someone must forgive us for the paths we take to love, for the paths are many and dark, and we are ardent and cruel in out journey.

Madness, you say? Exactly! A sober church never does any good. At this hour we need men drunk with the Holy Ghost.

La scienza, come la poesia, si sa che sta ad un passo dalla follia [...]

I want to be the apostle of self destruction. I want my book to affect man's reason, his emotions, his nerves, his whole animal nature. I should like my book to make people turn pale with horror as they read it, to affect them like a drug, like a terrifying dream, to drive them mad, to make them curse and hate me but still to read me.

I cannot get accustomed to war; my brain refuses to understand and explain a thing that is senseless in its basis. Millions of people gather at one place and, giving their actions order and regularity, kill each other, and it hurts everybody equally, and all are unhappy -- what is it if not madness?

The skeleton was as happy as a madman whose straitjacket had been taken off.

I really believe," said Wanda thoughtfully,"that your madness is nothing but a demonic, unsatisfied sensuality. Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane.

To you nature seems something hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar.

Am I mad or is she? Does all this arise out of an inventive, wanton woman's brain with the intention of surpassing my supersensual fantasies, or is this woman really one of those Neronian characters who take a diabolical pleasure in treading underfoot, like a worm, human beings, who have thoughts and feelings and a will like theirs?

In one huge leather-gloved fist Jollyby held up a large, madly kicking hare by its ears. 'Son of a bitch,' Dauntless said. 'He caught it.' Dauntless was a talking horse. She just didn't talk much.

If this was madness it was an entirely new kind of madness, as yet undocumented in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. She had nerdophrenia. She was dorkotic.

They certified that I was sane; but I know that I am mad." This confession gives us the key to what is most important and significant in Tolstoy's hidden life.

To think that the spectre you see is an illusion does not rob him of his terrors: it simply adds the further terror of madness itself -- and then on top of that the horrible surmise that those whom the rest call mad have, all along, been the only people who see the world as it really is.

But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here.

I don't think..." then you shouldn't talk, said the Hatter.

Mad Hatter: "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "What's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter

have i gone mad? im afraid so, but let me tell you something, the best people usualy are.

We're all mad here.

Sanity is madness put to good use.