Madness (n.) is a long dream, and a dream a brief madness.
Madness (n.) feigned like Hamlet's suits dreams: mad north-north-west, but knowing a hawk from a hand-saw when the wind is southerly.
Madness (n.) may be unintelligible only because of its gaps — trains of thought without purpose occur no more in hysteria and paranoia than in dreams.
Madness (n.) breaks the mind along its natural lines of cleavage, as a dropped crystal breaks — so the insane, turned from outer reality, know more of inner reality.
Madness (n.) is not caprice: where nothing but freakishness seemed to reign, analysis finds law, order and connection.
Madness (n.) and epilepsy seem uncanny because the layman senses in them unsuspected forces he dimly feels in himself; the Middle Ages blamed demons, almost correctly.
Madness (n.) has method in it, as the poet saw, and also a fragment of historical truth, which is why delusions are believed so compulsively.
Madness (n.) is divided from health by a frontier so shifting that each of us probably crosses it many times a day.
Madness (n.) does not destroy the lock but alters it; the old key no longer opens it, a differently cut one could.