Norman Bates: She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven’t you?
Buffy: Am I crazy?
Willow: Well, crazy is such a strong word.
Giles: Let’s not rule it out, though.
Garland Green: What if I told you insane was working a 50-hour week for fifty years, at the end of which they tell you to piss off. Ending up in some retirement village, hoping to die rather than suffering the indignity of trying to make it to the toilet on time. Wouldn’t you consider that to be insane?
Tracy: I’m going crazy. I’m standing here solidly on my own two hands and going crazy.
Bianca: Has the fact that you’re completely psycho managed to escape your attention?
Billy: Whatever the virtues of balance, it’s just a pleasant form of insanity.
“Look,” said Arthur, “would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?”
“The point is, you see,” said Ford, “that there is no point driving yourself mad trying to stop yourself from going mad. You might just as well give in and save your sanity for later.”
The air was clear and scented, the breeze flitted lightly through the tall grass around his cave, the birds were chirruping at each other, the butterflies were flitting about prettily, and the whole of nature seemed to be conspiring to be as pleasant as it possibly could.
It wasn’t all the pastoral delights that were making Arthur feel so cheery, though. He had just had a wonderful idea about how to cope with the terrible lonely isolation, the nightmares, the failure of all his attempts at horticulture, and the sheer futurelessness and futility of his life here on prehistoric Earth, which was that he would go mad.
I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.
My mother used to say that there are no strangers, only friends you haven’t met yet. She’s now in a maximum security twilight home in Australia.
The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.