Quotes About Madness

I do think, half of what we call madness is just some poor slob dealing with pain by a strategy that annoys the people around him.

For a while, I thought I was going mad. At last, I became reconciled to my despair. The medications helped, too, I thought, sir.

there is no thought control—or I'd certainly have put it to use before this. Trying to shape, or respond to, what every idiot on the street believes—on the basis of little logic and less information—would only serve to drive you mad.

Ethan trembled, waiting for the insanity to strike him from their level, medusan gazes. Nothing happened. After a moment, he unclutched the desk edge. Perhaps then the madness that possessed galactic men, slaves to these creatures, was something only transmitted in the flesh. Some incalculable telepathic aura? Bravely, he raised his eyes again to the figures in the screen. So. That was a woman -- two women, in fact.

He held out a hand in the dimness. This is an illusion. I am simply going mad with unrequited lust. Except that it hadn't seemed as unrequited as all that, now, had it? A perfectly demented grin stretched his mouth, briefly.

She was not, she thought, quite fool enough or mad enough to wish for bandits instead. Maybe that was the trouble; maybe she just wasn't crazed enough. True derangement stopped at no boundaries.

Her lips curved up. "That's very Ingrey of you, Ingrey. Always look on the dark side." "Someone has to be realistic, in the midst of this madness!" Now her brows rose, too. She was laughing at him. "Utterly bleak and black is not the sum of realism. All the other colors are real, too. It was my undeserved redemption as well.

It may be true that every enlightened sage is insane, but it does not necessarily follow that every insane person is an enlightened sage!

Oh, he was insane all right. There was no doubt in her mind now that he was bat-shit crazy.

Indeed if one had just seen him at the end of the evening with the dusk and the mist of the fenlands close behind him he might have believed that in the dusk and the mist was an army that followed this gay worn confident man. Had the army been there Niv was sane. Had the world accepted that an army was there, still he was sane. But the lonely fancy that had not fact to feed on, nor the fancy of any other for fellowship, was for its loneliness mad.

But the lonely fancy that had not fact to feed on, nor the fancy of any other for fellowship, was for its loneliness mad.

The lonely fancy that had not fact to feed on, nor the fancy of any other for fellowship, was for its loneliness mad.

Beauty could not love you back. People were not what they seemed and certainly not what they said. Madness was contagious. Memory served melancholy. The medieval was not so bad. Gravity was a form of nostalgia. There could be virtue in satirizing virtue. Dwight Eisenhower and Werner von Braun had the exact same mouths. No one loved a loser until he completely lost. The capital of Burma was Rangoon.

Everyone at some point in their lives should have a long great love affair with a magnificent lunatic.

Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.

They say that, for a madman, every day is a holiday, but they also say that insanity has seventy gates.

Don't give in to him at all. Deny yourself. Because then your eyes will not be clouded by a madness that you cannot control, and then you will be able to learn to see him as he is.

one explanation did not rule out the other, that charged electrons could be spirits, that nothing ruled out anything else, that mathematics was a rigorous form of madness

This is how the world ends, I think, everything crazy yet people doing normal things.

como ha dejado claro Virginia Woolf, cuando sufres un trastorno mental, lo primero que te es arrebatado es la palabra. Y con esto llegamos al núcleo abrasador de lo que llamamos locura. Estar loco es, sobre todo, estar solo. Pero estoy hablando de una soledad descomunal, de algo que no se parece en absoluto a lo que entendemos cuando decimos la palabra soledad.

En la pequeña noche de la vida humana, la loca de la casa enciende velas.

porque en realidad lo que llamamos locura es algo que causa un pavor general. Produce tanto miento, y tan irracional, que las personas que sufren alguna enfermedad mental son estigmatizadas y aisladas socialmente, cosa que empeora de manera fatal su dolencia. Porque estar loco, ya lo he dicho antes, es sobre todo estar solo. Es una ruptura de la narración común, es salirse de la convención social.

la locura es un enemigo que acecha durante toda la vida, un buitre que te ronda para devorarte. Aún peor: es un buitre impaciente que comienza a roerte las entrañas cuando aún no has muerto.

Porque la característica esencial de lo que llamamos locura es la soledad, pero una soledad monumental. Una soledad tan grande que no cabe dentro de la palabra soledad y que uno no puede ni llegar a imaginar si no ha estado ahí. Es sentir que te has desconectado del mundo, que no te van a poder entender, que no tienes #Palabras para expresarte.