Best 930 quotes in «madness quotes» category

WHO AM I? I have seven heavenly panels Leading up to a pointed sphere I’m multidimensional like a crystal And my center is never clear. I’m an inventor and pioneer. A mentor to my peers. But I'm not as sound as my shell reveals, Because I’m tormented by my fears - That may appear to be grounded But my insides are filled with tears. And the sadness is well-founded, From years and years Of traumatic experiences Compounded In the most demented Atmospheres. I talk but feel like nobody hears. Has reason disappeared? And, God, are you near? This is Giza’s 7th light force And I'm asking you to interfere. I can no longer walk amongst the blind and dead With open eyes and ears. I’m trying to maintain my sanity And to straighten up my veneer As I roll amongst the growing calamities Flowing on Earth’s severely trashed Frontier. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

Who but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren't we all just a little crazy?

Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

Whose Daddy's Little Girl Now?

Within your light, I lose the madness.

With lack of sleep and too much understanding I grow a little crazy, I think, like all men at sea who live too close to each other and too close thereby to all that is monstrous under the sun and moon.

Women have been driven mad, "gaslighted," for centuries by the refutation of our experience and our instincts in a culture which validates only male experience. The truth of our bodies and our minds has been mystified to us. We therefore have a primary obligation to each other: not to undermine each others' sense of reality for the sake of expediency; not to gaslight each other. Women have often felt insane when cleaving to the truth of our experience. Our future depends on the sanity of each of us, and we have a profound stake, beyond the personal, in the project of describing our reality as candidly and fully as we can to each other.

Why does our world feel so very crazy? Why do mental and emotional illnesses emerge more rapidly than we can educate psychiatrists, psychologists, addiction specialists, and mental health counselors to diagnose and treat them? We are marinating in the soup of collective madness, cruelty, selfishness, and lies, the soup of spiritual toxicity.

Why,' I said, quite surprised by my own eloquence in inventing all this stuff, 'it happens every day. The old old story. Boys and girls fall in love, that is, they are driven mad and go blind and deaf and see each other not as human animals with comic noses and bandy legs and voices like frogs, but as angels so full of shining goodness that like hollow turnips with candles put into them, they seem miracles of beauty. And the next minute the candles shoot out sparks and burn their eyes. And they seem to each other like devils, full of spite and cruelty. And they will drive each other mad unless they have grown some imagination. Even enough to laugh.

With every vial of success there is always a pinch of madness.

Wondering is a positive madness.

Wondering and writing constitute positive madness.

Worry whispered through his mind like madness. Mad Dog had refused to leave his family, and in the end, it had cost all of them their lives. Ryder swore he’d find a way to leave before anything happened to Lauren.

Wow, a trifecta: Murder, Madness and Magic, the three things you hate most of anything in the world.

Writing is a solitary existence, especially if you forget to chat to your friends – sorry, I meant characters.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

You are mad, Malloreigh!” It is an odd thing to have madness call you mad. Makes you think for a moment that you are sane, but also makes you think that it is truly sane. My mind hurts. I stopped thinking. I painted.

You can grow up being a troublemaker and then before you know it the next thing you’re doing is listening to Frank Zappa whilst chilling out…now that’s the intelligent way out. What would a psychiatrist say about that?

You don’t appreciate the fact that madmen are very lucky.

You don’t know me well enough to be confident that I wouldn’t be able to live without you. I survived almost two decades of ignoring the fuck out of you, I can survive plenty more.

You know those afternoons," he asks, drawing a shaking breath, "where you’re just going along, doing fine, and then afternoon comes and it feels like you’ve just got the wind knocked out of you and everything is wrong?" He sighs and slowly pushes himself so he’s sitting upright. His shoulders are slumped. "That’s all," he says. "It’s just one of those afternoons." We are silent for a minute. Then he lies back down on the couch. I should say I love him. I should say it will be all right. But it won’t. I walk down the hall to my bedroom. I lie down on my side and stare at the wall, the blue-flowered wallpaper next to my nose. Despite my best efforts, I start to cry. I know those afternoons.

You might never comprehend my madness. But it stands behind my undying love for you. You're the object of my everything. I’m sorry I’ve been stupid lately.

You must be a myth that your lover can't grasp and you must chase the moon like a wolf in the night, as if it will show you something only you can understand. Everything you do is a ritual that can mean something more and you must connect and create bonds with the spirits both outer and inner. Seek the strange and mysterious, otherworldly explanations for yourself and things around. There is always more. Always more. Nothing is ordinary, and you must make love to him like his touch is your salvation. You must dare to love and lose and hear your heart break into a million little pieces, glittering like diamonds in the night. Don’t run into hiding when the rain hits us like planets shot down to see who wants to survive the most for you want to survive the most and you must not hide from madness. You must love and live and write like you're obsessed and possessed. Go mad for what you believe in.

You need only one taste of madness, and the timeless journey can be spent in thoughts that follow behind like the fiery tail of a comet. And this glowing chaos, the soul will carry under the linings of its peace, to weave beautiful memories with.

You people would convict a grilled cheese sandwich of murder and the people wouldn’t question it.

You’re mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.

…you’re too old not to have had, how shall I say, certain experiences. You’ve had bad internet dates. You’ve had people be creeps to you. You’ve seen what you’ve seen; you’ve felt what you’ve felt. Ideology is for people who don’t trust their own experiences and perceptions of the world» «I feel like I am going mad» «Madness is actually quite rare in individuals. It’s groups of people who go mad. Countries, cults ... religions

You think I’ll weep? No, I’ll not weep. Storm and tempest. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or e’re I’ll weep.—O Fool, I shall go mad.

You see, I'm not mad, I suffer from depression. It's not like ordinary misery. It's like dying of boredom. It's black.

You think it's creative... I only feel like being insane.

You’ve been inexpressibly lucky,” he said finally. “And inexpressibly mad, although in your case the two seem to be the same thing

You who understand what a human mind can be, how can you bear it? I don't have the hundredth part of your mind and there are days when I think I'll go mad. I can feel it. Or hear it. It's more like hearing something creeping along the walls, just behind my head, getting closer and closer. A big insect, maybe a scorpion. A dry skittering, that's what madness sounds like to me.

Acclaim is a distraction.

Actors are able to trick themselves into treating anything as if it's fantastic. It's a kind of madness really.

A fixed idea ends in madness or heroism.

All pioneers are considered to be afflicted with moonstruck madness.

A lot of people thought this dream must be madness, but we are not crazy.

A madness of tender caressing seized her. She purred as a tiger might have done, while she undulated like a snake.

A musician's attempt to summarize his or her work leads to all this prescriptive chatter, or what I call the Modifier's Madness. A lot of adjectives working overtime.

And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, "Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!

And I wasn't crazy about Hollywood in those days.

And Seattle isn't really crazy anymore. It's a big dot-com city.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses?

And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.

An excess of reason is itself a form of madness

Anger is temporary madness.

Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you.

Anger is momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you.

Anger is a momentary madness.

As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.