The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
I suppose our capacity for self-delusion is boundless.
Mental illness is so much more complicated than any pill that any mortal could invent
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
Why is it that all those who have become eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, or the arts are clearly of an atrabilious temperament and some of them to such an extent as to be affected by diseases caused by black bile?
And of course you are mad, if by a madman we mean a mind that questions and rejects every civilized norm.
People often write me and ask how I keep my wood floors so clean when I live with a child and a dog, and my answer is that I use a technique called Suffering From a Mental Illness.
Sometimes I think that it is enough to say that if we don't sit down and shut up once in a while we'll lose our minds even earlier than we had expected. Noise is an imposition on sanity, and we live in very noisy times.
There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
I didn't want to do a zoo show. I didn't want to do a study of someone with mental illness. I just wanted to show someone who was trying to live their life.
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
I'm a happy-go-lucky manic-depressive. It does get very deep and dark for me, and it gets scary at times when I feel I can't pull out of it. But I don't consider myself negative-negative. I'm positive-negative.
I will find a way out or make one.
When you're surrounded by all these people, it can be even lonelier than when you're by yourself. You can be in a huge crowd, but if you don't feel like you can trust anybody or talk to anybody, you feel like you're really alone.
His impression was that he had been imprisoned in a shelter deep down in the underworld of his personality, listening and biding his time while insanity rushed like spring flood through the upper layer of his soul, roaring and crashing, leaving terrible destruction in its wake, a deserted, ravaged country. No, he hadn't been crazy, but something inside him had been crazy.
I began to think that melancholy was a dialect that only some people knew-or could even hear-and in my conversations, I sought these people out.
Maybe people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.
Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
Beneath the seemingly rational exterior of our lives is a fear of insanity. We dare not question the values by which we live or rebel against the roles we play for fear of putting our sanity in doubt.
I have gone insane. I won't be talking with you for a while.
I have a plan-to go mad.
But you learn to smother the living breathing soul, go deaf to it, and this violence to the self is what is commonly called sanity in the places where I have lived.
When you look directly at an insane man all you see is a reflection of your own knowledge that he's insane, which is not to see him at all.
Moods should be heard but never danced to.
Insanity - a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.
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