Madness is a prerequisite of being in showbusiness.
A poet has to adapt himself, more or less consciously,to the demands of his vocation, and hence the peculiarities of poets and the condition of inspiration which many people have said is near to madness... The problem of creative writing is essentially one of concentration... a focusing of the attention in a special way.
In my view, madness is a place. You go. You come back. And I think we all take turns being the mental patient. Without a touch of crazy, literature can be a desolate place. In the current climate of careful speech, even fearful speech, smoke-free film scripts, thought-free songs, and child-proof locks on American minds, the oft-repeated lament of the arts is "Where have all those wonderful madmen gone?"
A good, true, intense love is not complete without madness.
The madness of demons is rage - the madness of angels - hope.
You cannot escape what you have to deal with inside yourself. It will never bring good things. It will only bring madness.
I built a leprechaun trap that was made to look like a tiny hotel. There was a ramp where the leprechaun could walk into the hotel, see a Lego pot of gold on the other side, try to reach it, fall through a trap door, go through a tube, wind up in a biscuit tin, and be trapped. My mom, encouraging my madness, told me that the leprechaun might escape and that I needed a shot glass of whiskey down there to keep him occupied while he was in there.
Madness such as this, its like trying to stop a fire with the moisture from a kiss
If we tried to rely entirely on reason, and pressed it hard, our lives and beliefs would collapse - a form of madness that may actually occur if the inertial force of taking the world and life for granted is somehow lost. If we lose our grip on that, reason will not give it back to us.
How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
[Richard Avedon's] camera dwells on the horrible things that age can do to people's faces - on the flabby flesh, the slack skin, the ugly growths, the puffy eyes, the knotted necks, the aimless wrinkles, the fearful and anxious set of the mouth, the marks left by sickness, madness, alcoholism, and irreversible disappointment.
Here at CBS, spring also means March Madness. I love the name March Madness. I'm glad the PC police haven't made us change March Madness to early spring psychosis.
Nature has no cure for this sort of madness, though I have known a legacy from a rich relative work wonders.
There's a lot of madness going on out there. Artists can only be what they are, but the industry only goes with what they think people wanna hear.
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
Liberals compare Jerry Falwell to the Taliban, but then are furious with George Bush for not being Jesus Christ. Evidently, what a president is supposed to do when the girls are scared is develop complete omniscience and omnipotence. Thus, the media repeatedly expound upon the proposition that what Bush should have done in response to the anthrax mailings is: Instantly produce the culprits and put an end to this madness!
Status, worry and comparison are ways to madness, not victory.
Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must live.
There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.
I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream; I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.
Madness is the emergency exit. You can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. Forever.
Of course in war all madness's come out in a man. That is the fault of war not of a man or a nation.
Soon silence will have passed into legend. Man has turned his back on silence. Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation.
You are my inspiration and my folly. You are my light across the sea, my million nameless joys, and my day's wage. You are my divinity, my madness, my selfishness, my transfiguration and purification. You are my rapscallionly fellow vagabond, my tempter and star. I want you.
You worthy critics, or whatever you may call yourselves, are ashamed or afraid of the momentary and passing madness which is found in all real creators, the longer or shorter duration of which distinguishes the thinking artist from the dreamer. Hence your complaints of unfruitfulness, for you reject too soon and discriminate too severely.
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