Best 930 quotes in «madness quotes» category

True love is a word found by a madman to make the people who believe in it go mad.

Trying not to believe things when in your heart you are almost sure they are true, is as bad for the temper as anything I know.

Tu pratique la dichotomie comme personne, tu sais. Tu as l'incroyable faculté de te dédoubler en deux personnes totalement différente. Je dis deux, mais c'est pas modestie. En vérité, tu peux être une infinité de personnages. N'es-tu pas auteur, après tout ? C'est ton métier, non ?

Tu fais ton travail d'auteur, rien d'autre. Tu crées des personnages de toutes pièces, ou bien à partir de la réalité qui t'entoure, et tu mélanges le tout. C'est bien ce que t'a toujours reproché Sue. Elle t'a toujours reproché de distordre la réalité, de la confondre avec la fiction et de ne considérer les autres, justement, que comme de la chair à fiction, de faire de la vie un scénario permanent, de passer ton temps à te faire des films. Elle te reprochait, en somme, d'être qui tu es : un auteur, un inventeur, un créateur, un personnage multiple, tentaculaire et hybride. Protéiforme.

Underwater madness slipping into a haze, drowning and choking in repugnant nostalgic thoughts.

Unlike ‘mere’ medical or physical disorders, mental disorders are not just problems. If successfully navigated, they can also present opportunities. Simply acknowledging this can empower people to heal themselves and, much more than that, to grow from their experiences.

Unmoor the boat, we could go…downriver... History is a collection of found objects washed up through time. Goods, ideas, personalities surface towards us and then sink away and some we hook out and others we ignore. And as the pattern changes so does the meaning. We cannot rely on the facts. Time that returns everything, changes everything. ..a bundle of abandoned clothes. The end of one identity and the beginning of another. …History is a madman's museum. I think I understand some of this, But it’s all subject to the tide. Unmoor the boat. Part miracle part madness. My life is a series of set sails and shipwrecks. I run aground I cut loose, the rim is dangerously near the waterline. I feel like a saint in a coracle. Head thrown back, sun on my throat. Unmoor the boat.

Until we come up with an unequivocal blood test or the equivalent, we're all blowing smoke and don't know if what we call schizophrenia and bipolar disorder are one disorder or a dozen.

Urges like the loony who enjoys strangling, it’s his buzz. He gets depressed when in seclusion, as he can’t strangle anybody so in the end he hangs himself in turmoil. Their brain can’t handle it. He wants so bad to kill, but they will not let him, so he has to kill himself.

Violence leads to madness, it fills you with crazy thoughts. You sleep it, eat it and shit it. You become a time bomb. They push you a bit more – you blow up. They beat you and you survive. You get strong and you blow again. So how long can a man live this way? I’ll tell you…until he dies, if need be. It becomes a way of life, but I don’t remember it, why? Simple…it’s painful; it’s empty and alone. Your cell becomes a hole in the earth, it sucks you in. You drown in your own bitterness, it’s not right to live this way.

Was it a form of madness, no longer to be able to trust your sense of things? To be betrayed by decisions apparently arrived at carefully and through reason, but really no more than marauding appetites cunningly tricked out as reasonable choices?

We all talk to ourselves. Those we call mad just talk a little louder.

We are all subjected to two distinct natures in the same person. I myself have suffered grievously in that way.

We are all just illusions of what we want the world to believe about us, no one even begins to assume what lurks below my surface, not even my best friends. ~Callum~

We are creatures of rage and madness and bitter tears and we knew that from the start. Our end was disaster and we knew that from the start. We knew it all from the start.

Unlike most I don’t fear prison, never have, never will. Obviously I don’t want it, I hate it, but it’s the hate that drives me on to survive.

We are worth fighting for,” we both whispered. Giving one another permission, into each other madness.

We can go mad whenever we like. We can leave our minds behind and play in the garden at night. The gate is always open. And the moon is always bright.

We fail to subjugate a madman so we decide to butcher him out of society. Sanity is a different degree of madness, for what we believe as ‘normal,’ ‘average,’ and ‘polite’ are equally hideous and revolting to the madman on his account. People hate madman out of politic of thought and difference of perspective.

Weird how I can feel so frail and tiny sometimes, and other times so brave and bold and reckless and free, and . . . Does everybody feel the same? When people get grown-up, do they always feel grown-up and sensible and sorted out and . . . And do I want to feel grown-up? Do I want to stop feeling . . . paradoxical, nonsensical? Do I want to stop being crackers? Do I want to be destrangified? O yes, sometimes I want nothing more - but it only lasts a moment, then O I want to be the strangest and crakerest of everybody.

We must stand firm between two kinds of madness: the belief that we can do anything; and the belief that we can do nothing.

Well, here I am, just come home; a fellow gone to the bad; though I had the best intentions in the world at one time. Now I am melancholy mad, what with drinking and one thing and another.

We men of intelligence will learn to harness the insanities of reason. We can't leave the world any longer to the direction of chance. We can't allow dangerous maniacs like Luther, mad about dogma, like Napoleon, mad about himself, to go on casually appearing and turning everything upside down. In the past it didn't so much matter; but our modern machine is too delicate. A few more knocks like the Great War, another Luther or two, and the whole concern will go to pieces. In future, the men of reason must see that the madness of the world's maniacs is canalised into proper channels, is made to do useful work, like a mountain torrent driving a dynamo...

We take the names of madmen, because madness is our fate. Terribly melodramatic, that.

What do you think the world is if not just an endless parade of madness? To make war is madness. To seek power is madness." She laughed louder, throwing her arms wide. "And madness is glorious!

What frightened me most was, I could no longer believe in my own life as a story. Everyone needs a story, a part to play in order to avoid the realization that life is without significance. How else do any of us survive? It’s what makes life bearable, even interesting. When it becomes neither, people say you’ve lost the plot. Or just lost it.

What if the insane are too raw to know which stations are real and which are just confused static?

What might happen if we could somehow reorient ourselves toward our more loving, bonobo side rather than our inner mad chimpanzee?

When Kafka allows a friend to understand that he writes because otherwise he would go mad, he knows that writing is madness already, his madness, a kind of vigilence, unrelated to any wakefulness save sleep's: insomnia. Madness against madness, then. But he believes that he masters the one by abandoning himself to it; the other frightens him, and is his fear; it tears through him, wounds and exalts him. It is as if he had to undergo all the force of an uninterruptable continuity, a tension at the edge of the insupportable which he speaks of with fear and not without a feeling of glory. For glory is the disaster.

When life is this dull, you have to invent purpose. Collecting torn-up newspaper gives you a hobby, provides an anchoring intimacy with your surroundings, keeps the streets clean. Or so you think. Then one day you wake up and realise that it was all a con: what you had thought was an escape from madness was in fact the arrival.

When one finds oneself in the kind of strange, unsettling circumstances as I presently find myself, it is only natural, after all, to have a few, unusual, vivid dreams.

When people run in circles it's a very very... mad world.

When people fall in love, they are apt to go a little mad.

When society does something wrong and extremely immoral, ironically it is not called ‘madness’. For example, ‘sati burning’ and ‘forced conversion into another religion’ etc. Sometimes, an ‘unreasonable’ society tries to present itself as ‘reasonable’ by unfairly and selfishly defining ‘madness’ according to its own wish and for its own interest!

When the rest of the mind has fled, sometimes there’s music left.

When the thin line between love and hatred faded away completely, madness sprang back to life inside the numb hearts.

When you commune with your ever-present inner calm, you are released from the madness and pain of all outer turmoil.

When your efforts run in the face of conventional wisdom and accepted mastery, persistence can look like madness. If you succeed in the end, this extreme originality reformulates into a new level of mastery, sometimes even genius; if you fail in the end, you remain a madman in the eyes of others, and maybe even yourself. When you are in the midst of the journey…there’s really no way of knowing which one you are.” (p.129)

When your madness is creative and necessary, people will not notice the fact that you are crazy.

When you want to fully isolate yourself from the madnesses of the people, find a wooden cottage in the middle of nowhere by the side of high mountains! Over there, alongside the fresh winds, the mysterious sounds and the pleasant scents, you will find the most precious thing: Freedom!

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?

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.

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.

Wondering is a positive madness.