The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
If Doctor Nolan asked me for the matches, I would say that I'd thought they were made of candy and had eaten them.
I think I am mad sometimes.
If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
I am made, crudely, for success.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.
I think I made you up inside my head.
I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.
Intoxicated with madness, I'm in love with my sadness
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.