William Shakespeare Quotes

... madness entered my veins.

My name is Stephen Leeds, and I am perfectly sane. My hallucinations, however, are all quite mad.

Oh yes! The one man in the world who never believes he's mad is the madman.

The true gardener then brushes over the ground with slow and gentle hand, to liberate a space for breath round some favorites; but he is not thinking about destruction except incidentally. It is only the amateur like myself who becomes obsessed and rejoices with a sadistic pleasure in weeds that are big and bad enough to pull, and at last, almost forgetting the flowers altogether, turns into a Reformer.

Our finest flowers are often weeds transplanted.

When one has an image about oneself one is surely insane, one lives in a world of illusion.

Insanity is believing your hallucinations are real. Religion is believing that other peoples' hallucinations are real.

He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it.

Men will always be mad, and those who think they can cure them are the maddest of all.

There is a fine line between perseverance and madness.

I have seen mad people, and I have known some who were quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one point. They could speak clearly, readily, profoundly on everything; till their thoughts were caught in the breakers of their delusions and went to pieces there, were dispersed and swamped in that furious and terrible sea of fogs and squalls which is called MADNESS.

Madmen always think it's the others who are mad.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

I felt passing over me the wind of the wing of madness.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it.

The logic of a madman is a sane man's confusion.

When the young woman leans over the sky, about to water the flowers as well as the weeds, her white front splits open until her milk runs.

He stares at me, and then leans back in his chair. "He's ill, Jacob." I say nothing. "He's a paragon schnitzophonic." "He's what?!" "Paragon schnitzophonic," repeats Uncle Al. "You mean paranoid schizophrenic?" "Sure. Whatever. But the bottom line is he's mad as a hatter.

I am madness maddened! That wild madness that's only calm to comprehend itself

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.

The problem with being nuts, she thought, is that you don't always feel as if you're nuts. Sometimes, in fact, you feel perfectly sane, and there just happens to be a trailer-shaped dragon crouching in the lot next door.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

Every madman considers everyone else a madman.

To lie, of course, is to engender insanity.

Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with them and slay them.