Madness (n.) is needed to understand woman, says the Fashion Designer — and if one was not mad before, one must be so after.
Madness (n.) shared — talking of our love in the expressions of insanity, as Lear would talk with Cordelia about the Court — would be an alleviation to the one forbidden to sit by her.
Madness (n.) can be fixed by an equivocal joke — “no man, not even a married man, can know how many children he has” — heard harmlessly a hundred times, it becomes the accidental touch when it strikes the sore spot.
Madness (n.) was her verdict — "I really believe you are mad" — and it hit the center but was a wild shot: melancholy is in a sense madness, yet it takes much dialectic and pathos to comprehend it; one who says it as of a ridiculous dress has no presentiment of what madness is.
Madness (n.) would be a relief: to know that explaining your condition to anyone would get you declared mad, and yet not go mad — that is precisely the misfortune.
Madness (n.) is sometimes a good sign: a man who is as it were mad may see reality sub specie poeseos.
Madness (n.) concealed shrewdly enough could make the whole world mad.