Sanity is simply the ability of the mind to adjust to reality. If we can’t adjust, we either hide from reality, or we put our selves above life, where we’re super-beings who don’t have to follow the rules.
The distinction between sanity and insanity is narrower than the razor’s edge, sharper than a hound’s tooth, more agile than a mule deer. It is more elusive than the merest phantom. Perhaps it does not even exist; perhaps it is a phantom.
Sanity is the one unbelievable bore. One must be mad – deliciously mad – perverted – slightly twisted – then one sees life from a new and entrancing angle.
Sanity is a valuable possession; I hoard it the way people once hoarded money. I save it, so I will have enough, when the time comes.
Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence whether much that is glorious whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.