Method To My Madness Quotes

There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration.

There is method in my madness.

We should go back inside," she said, in a half whisper. She did not want to go back inside. She wanted to stay here, with Will achingly close, almost leaning into her. She could feel the heat that radiated from his body. His dark hair fell around the mask, into his eyes, tangling with his long eyelashes. "We have only a little time-" She took a step forward-and stumbled into Will, who caught her. She froze-and then her arms crept around him, her fingers lacing themselves behind his neck. Her face was pressed against his throat, his soft hair under her fingers. She closed her eyes, shutting out the dizzying world, the light beyond the French windows, the glow of the sky. She wanted to be here with Will, cocooned in this moment, inhaling the clean sharp scent of him., feeling the beat of his heart against hers, as steady and strong as the pulse of the ocean. She felt him inhale. "Tess," he said. "Tess, look at me." She raised her eyes to his, slow and unwilling, braced for anger or coldness-but his gaze was fixed on hers, his dark blue eyes somber beneath their thick black lashes, and they were stripped of all their usual cool, aloof distance. They were as clear as glass and full of desire. And more than desire-a tenderness she had never seen in them before, had never even associated with Will Herondale. That, more than anything else, stopped her protest as he raised his hands and methodically began to take the pins from her hair, one by one. This is madness, she thought, as the first pin rattled to the ground. They should be running, fleeing this place. Instead she stood, wordless, as Will cast Jessamine's pearl clasps aside as if they were so much paste jewelry. Her own long, curling dark hair fell down around her shoulders, and Will slid his hands into it. She heard him exhale as he did so, as if he had been holding his breath for months and had only just let it out. She stood as if mesmerized as he gathered her hair in his hands, draping it over one of her shoulders, winding her curls between his fingers. "My Tessa," he said, and this time she did not tell him that she was not his. "Will," she whispered as he reached up and unlocked her hands from around his neck. He drew her gloves off, and they joined her mask and Jessie's pins on the stone floor of the balcony. He pulled off his own mask next and cast it aside, running his hands through his damp black hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The lower edge of the mask had left marks across his high cheekbones, like light scars, but when she reached to touch them, he gently caught at her hands and pressed them down. "No," he said. "Let me touch you first. I have wanted...

Sure, okay, I'll pick up some cat litter. Anything else?" "Watch your back, G." Then she hung up. Hero paused in her sobbing to look at me quizzically. "Why does your mom want cat litter? You guys don't even have a cat." "She uses it for..." I searched my brain madly, but all I could come up with was "teaching." "She uses cat litter to teach English?" I nodded. "She's kind of unconventional in her methods." Hero frowned. "But how does she use it?" The girl was relentless when she fixated on something. "Um, when their papers are really bad, she gives them a little bag of cat litter. It's her way of telling them their writing is crap." I laughed. "She's kooky.

My father picked me up from school one day, and we played hooky and went to the beach. It was too cold to go in the water, so we sat on a blanket and ate pizza. When I got home, my sneakers were full of sand, and I dumped it on my bedroom floor. I didn't know the difference. I was six. My mother screamed at me for the mess, but he wasn't mad. He said that billions of years ago, the world shifting and the oceans moving brought that sand to that spot on the beach, and then I took it away. "Every day," he said, "we change the world," which is a nice thought until I think about how many days and lifetimes I would need to bring a shoe full of sand home until there is no beach, until it made a difference to anyone. Every day, we change the world, but to change the world in a way that means anything, that takes more time than most people have. It never happens all at once. It's slow. It's methodical. It's exhausting. We don't all have the stomach for it.

There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious celebration! —Dr. Seward

I thought to myself that if I could care so much about teaching that I didn’t even realize my hair was burning, I was moving in the right direction. From that moment, I resolved to always teach like my hair was on fire.

I mutter and mutter and no one to listen. I speak my words in Japanese and my daughter will not hear them. The words that come from our ears, our mouths, they collide in the space between us. "Obachan, please! I wish you would stop that. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? You do this on purpose, don’t you? Don’t you! I just want some peace. Just stop! Please, just stop." "Gomennasai. Waruine, Obachan wa. Solly. Solly." Ha! Keiko, there is method in my madness. I could stand on my head and quote Shakespeare until I had a nosebleed, but to no avail, no one hears my language. So I sit and say the words and will, until the wind or I shall die. Someone, something must stand against this wind and I will. I am.

I teach my students that while rules are necessary, many of our greatest heroes became heroes by not following the rules. [...] Extraordinary people throughout history have done this, and if we want our children to reach such heights, they need to know the rules but see past a chart on the wall. There will be times when the chart is not there. More important, there will be times when the chart is wrong.

It is very likely an anxiety dream, brought on by your move out of your childhood home and the comfort of the reach of your family’s love and protection.” Gideon reached to stroke her hair soothingly. “I am only surprised it has not happened sooner.” “Are you sure?” Her nervousness was clear, but she was truly relaxing already. “Yes. And so are you. You know everything there is to know about psychology, you tell me what you think.” “But you thought it was this . . . new level of ability.” “And for the first time in a millennium my diagnosis is wrong. I do despise it when such bothersome things occur. Now I shall have to start the ‘No Mistakes’ clock all over again.” Legna giggled at him, which was of course his intention. She swung her arms around his neck, hugging him warmly. “You smell so good,” he murmured against her ear a long minute later. “I smell like sex,” she argued. He nodded, making a loud noise of appreciation as he sniffed and nibbled her neck. “You smell like very good sex,” he amended with a voracious growl and an eager mouth moving over her bare skin with bold appetite. “Gideon!” She squealed as he went straight for her waist, knowing she was ticklish there. The playful flicker of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth drove her mad, and she twisted as she screamed for him to stop. When he tickled her she absolutely could not use her classic escape method. She could barely catch her breath, never mind her concentration.

On reflection, looking at shows like this and considering my own experiences, what fascinated me was that we have so many stories like this that help us empathize with monstrous men. “Yes, these men are flawed, but they are not as evil as this man.” Even more chilling, they tend to be stories that paint women as roadblocks, aggressors, antagonists, complications—but only in the context of them being a bitch, a whore, a Madonna. The women are never people. Stories about monstrous men are not meant to teach us how to empathize with the women and children murdered, but with the men fighting over their bodies. As a woman menaced by monsters, I find this particularly interesting, this erasure of me from a narrative meant to, if not justify, then explain the brokenness of men. There are shows much better at this, of course, which don’t paint women out of the story—Mad Men is the first to come to mind, and Game of Thrones—but True Detective doubled down. The women terrorized by monsters in real life are active agents. They are monster-slayers, monster-pacifiers, monster-nurturers, monster-wranglers—and some of them are monsters, too. In truth, if we are telling a tale of those who fight monsters, it fascinates me that we are not telling more women’s stories, as we’ve spun so many narratives like True Detective that so blatantly illustrate the sexist masculinity trap that turns so many human men into the very things they despise. Where are the women who fight them? Who partner with them? Who overcome them? Who battle their own monsters to fight greater ones? Because I have and continue to be one of those women, navigating a horror show world of monsters and madmen. We are women who write books and win awards and fight battles and carve out extraordinary lives from ruin and ash. We are not background scenery, our voices silenced, our motives and methods constrained to sex. I cannot fault the show’s men for forgetting that; they’ve created the world as they see it. But I can prod the show’s exceptional writers, because in erasing the narrative of those whose very existence is constantly threatened by these monsters, including trusted monsters whose natures vacillate wildly, they sided with the monsters. I’m not a bit player in a monster’s story. But with narratives like this perpetuated across our media, it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s how my obituary read: a catalogue of the men who sired me, and fucked me, and courted me. Stories that are not my own. Funny, isn’t it? The power of story. It’s why I picked up a pen. I slay monsters, too.

The question,” Rupert stated, “is, do I rend you limb from limb, physically?  Or do I rend you cell by cell, magically?”  Rupert certainly couldn’t do the latter, and he really didn’t want to do the former; however, the demon had really made him mad.  He deserved to suffer a little fear.  If Rupert had been a human, he’d be dead by now, he was sure. “Limb by limb, if you please.”  The demon begged. “I’ll be forever regenerating with the cell-by-cell thing.  Please...”  The demon almost seemed to whine.  “Please lord, if I have to regenerate cell by cell, my master will really be angry with me.  He doesn’t like his people slacking off, taking up his time to regenerate from their own stupidity, as he’d say.  Just rend me limb from limb, I promise I won’t bother you anymore.  Please?”  Rupert just continued to glare.  He was taken by surprise. The little fellow acted as if it were standard procedure in this circumstance.  He was actually begging for one method over the other.  “Please? Limb by limb?”  the demon begged. Rupert shrugged.  He’d never rent anyone limb from limb before.  He wasn’t sure how it was supposed to be done, but he could use his imagination.  Rupert waded in.  It was all rather messy, he’d decided afterward.

In the entire endless evening his serenity received a jolt only a few times. The first was when someone who didn’t know who he was confided that only two months ago Lady Elizabeth’s uncle had sent out invitations to all her former suitors offering her hand in marriage. Suppressing his shock and loathing for her uncle, Ian had pinned an amused smile on his face and confided, “I’m acquainted with the lady’s uncle, and I regret to say he’s a little mad. As you know, that sort of thing runs,” Ian had finished smoothly, “in our finest families.” The reference to England’s hopeless King George was unmistakable, and the man had laughed uproariously at the joke. “True,” he agreed. “Lamentably true.” Then he went off to spread the word that Elizabeth’s uncle was a confirmed loose screw. Ian’s method of dealing with Sir Francis Belhaven-who, his grandfather had discovered, was boasting that Elizabeth had spent several days with him-was less subtle and even more effective. “Belhaven,” Ian said after spending a half hour searching for the repulsive knight. The stout man had whirled around in surprise, leaving his acquaintances straining to hear Ian’s low conversation with him. “I find your presence repugnant,” Ian had said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I dislike your coat, I dislike your shirt, and I dislike the knot in your neckcloth. In fact, I dislike you. Have I offended you enough yet, or shall I continue?” Belhaven’s mouth dropped open, his pasty face turning a deathly gray. “Are-are you trying to force a-duel?” “Normally one doesn’t bother shooting a repulsive toad, but in this instance I’m prepared to make an exception, since this toad doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut!” “A duel, with you?” he gasped. “Why, it would be no contest-none at all. Everyone knows what sort of marksman you are. It would be murder.” Ian leaned close, speaking between his clenched teeth. “It’s going to be murder, you miserable little opium-eater, unless you suddenly remember very vocally that you’ve been joking about Elizabeth Cameron’s visit.” At the mention of opium the glass slid from his fingers and crashed to the floor. “I have just realized I was joking.” “Good,” Ian said, restraining the urge to strangle him. “Now start remembering it all over this ballroom!” “Now that, Thornton,” said an amused voice from Ian’s shoulder as Belhaven scurried off to begin doing as bidden, “makes me hesitate to say that he is not lying.” Still angry with Belhaven, Ian turned in surprise to see John Marchman standing there. “She was with me as well,” Marchman sad. “All aboveboard, for God’s sake, so don’t look at me like I’m Belhaven. Her aunt Berta was there every moment.” “Her what?” Ian said, caught between fury and amusement. “Her Aunt Berta. Stout little woman who doesn’t say much.” “See that you follow her example,” Ian warned darkly. John Marchman, who had been privileged to fish at Ian’s marvelous stream in Scotland, gave his friend an offended look. “I daresay you’ve no business challenging my honor. I was considering marrying Elizabeth to keep her out of Belhaven’s clutches; you were only going to shoot him. It seems to me that my sacrifice was-“ “You were what?” Ian said, feeling as if he’d walked in on a play in the middle of the second act and couldn’t seem to hold onto the thread of the plot or the identity of the players. “Her uncle turned me down. Got a better offer.” “Your life will be more peaceful, believe me,” Ian said dryly, and he left to find a footman with a tray of drinks.

Okay, so technically it was your second date, but you’d gotten together before that, and you’ve known him for a while. It’s not like he’s a total stranger. Do you love him?” “Yeah, I think I do. I mean, I guess. It feels like love, but maybe it’s just lust. But yeah, I think I’m in love with the guy.” “How do you know it’s love and not just infatuation? You were kind of blown away when he said he was interested. Maybe it’s more fascination and hero worshipping.” “Hero worshipping?  Seriously, work with me here. I mean, it feels real.” “Okay, so let’s figure this out. What kind of real is it? Like you want to have his babies real, or like if he lost a testicle, didn’t have a job, and couldn’t have sex anymore because he gained five hundred pounds and his asthma stopped him from having hot sex, you’d still be by his side real?” “What kind of question is that?” “You know what I’m saying, don’t be coy. If you just want babies, it’s still infatuation. If you’d sit by his side as he got his testicle removed and gained a bunch of weight and couldn’t find his dick to put it inside of you anymore, would you still want him?” “Sam!” “What? It’s a legitimate question. You don’t have questions like that to measure things?” “Not to that extreme.” “Seriously, there’s a method to my madness. Picture this, he can’t find his winky anymore, it’s hidden between his legs, he can’t reach, he’s out of breath when he tries, and the most you can do is blow him, like that’s it. He might diddle you time to time so you aren’t feeling too hopeless in the sex department, and he doesn’t want you straying. Would you still be there?” Becky sighed, going with the flow of the conversation. “Fine, yes, I’d still be with him. He’s more to me than some hard body to have sex with. I really like the guy. I like talking to him, laughing with him, and learning more about him.” “Nice. I think you may very well be in love, Becks. Now if you could find me a guy like that…” “The one that can’t find his wiener? Or someone to love?” “Hey, I’ll help him find his wiener if he’s awesome.

Don’t get mad at yourself for being someone you’re not. Just know who you are, then find the ways to let that person be as successful as possible.

My biggest fear was that she would look at me differently, however; she deserved to know the method to my madness.

What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord. Hamlet: Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams; all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward. Polonius: [Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in't Hamlet Act 2, scene 2, 193–206

Later in life, it would occur to me that despite his actions, my father really did want what was best for his family. As to how he would accomplish that? He had no idea. Later in life, it would occur to me that this was the ultimate dichotomy: for a person to want what's best but draw from their worst. Dad did just that...His methods weren't just ineffective, they were insane. Such were the fates of good men once succumbed to the madness of the world.

Rike gave him a look as if he’d gone mad. Fat Burlow covered a chuckle. “I have spoken about that, Makin,” I said. “I will break the cycle.” I drew my sword and laid it across my knees. “You know how to break the cycle of hatred?” I asked. “Love,” said Gomst, all quiet-like. “The way to break the cycle is to kill every single one of the bastards that fucked you over,” I said. “Every last one of them. Kill them all. Kill their mothers, kill their brothers, kill their children, kill their dog.” I ran my thumb along the blade of my sword and watched the blood bead crimson on the wound. “People think I hate the Count, but in truth I’m a great advocate of his methods. He has only two failings. Firstly, he goes far, but not far enough. Secondly, he isn’t me. He taught me valuable lessons though. And when we meet, I will thank him for it, with a quick death.

I selected a research method called autoethnography. It allows someone to study their own story within a cultural context like, say, a child living in a world fraught with rampant child sexual abuse.

It is possible to access secrets of mind reprogramming with effortless methods. However, they are very dangerous to apply, and often, the consequences and implications, unpredictable as well. They are known only to members of secret societies. But even they often pay the price for applying high levels of magic. This universe has its own rules, and they should never be broken. There is a very big price to pay when that happens, and many times, if not with loneliness and severe levels of depression, with death itself. That is why, the vast majority of those who know this, focus on conscious methods. They are safer, imply more responsibility, and are easier to explain and understand. The secret path is secret for a very good reason - it is not meant for the common mortal. The common human needs to go through rituals of preparation before he is ready to accept such secrets, and it can take years. It often takes a whole lifetime for the common person. The conscious method is a safe path to the unconscious. Knowledge is a good and well-rooted path. But it's also true that some books are made to access the subconscious mind more than others. Meditation, on the other hand, can reveal to you how ready you are to acquire what you want and what you need to do next if that is not the case. But most forms of meditation are wrong or incomplete and can lead to madness and apathy. Zen meditation is the most efficient, but before you practice, you must know what that is within your heart, not with your mind. After that point, you will understand alchemy. That is how you bridge your mind with your heart. Nothing can enter your heart before your mind is ready. Finally, it is in the heart that you find all the answers you seek, including the ones that nullify the relevance of any of your questions. Know that, when I speak or write, I always speak and write to the heart. Those that focus on my words or the emotions I cause on them, are not listening and never will. To them, all secrets remain hidden because they are in the darkness.

See, I’ve got this coping mechanism thing where, when I’m feeling frightened or vulnerable or over my head, I intellectualize the situation to try and regain a sense of control. (I’ve read a lot of books on air travel, parenting, and death.) It was scary starting over at a new church and trying to make new friends, so before each visit, I girded myself with a sense of smug detachment wherein I could observe the proceedings from the safety of my intellectual superiority, certain I could do a better job at running the show thanks to my expertise as, you know, a Christian blogger. Oh, I talked a big game about the importance of ecumenicism and the beauty of diversity within the global church, but when I deigned to show up at one of these unsuspecting congregations, I sat in the pew with my arms crossed, mad at the Baptists for not being Methodist enough, the Methodists for not being Anglican enough, the Anglicans for not being evangelical enough, and the evangelicals for not being Catholic enough. I scrutinized the lyrics to every worship song, debated the content of every sermon. I rendered verdicts regarding the frequency of communion and the method of baptism. I checked the bulletins for typos. In some religious traditions, this particular coping mechanism is known as pride.

Happiness, I decided years ago, is unattainable and I don’t wish to seek it through the usual methods. Peace is a reflection of our souls, leaving me a non-entity. I cry because people want to feel and I join them in their fears and private agonies and I wish for death and pray for life and hope to God that God even gives a shit and before I die and receive my judgment I just want to help 1 person FEEL, to know what it is to be alive and to ease their suffering as only a tormented soul can.

Though I am young and feminine—very feminine—I am not that quaint conceit, a girl: the sort of person that Laura E. Richards writes about, and Nora Perry, and Louisa M. Alcott,—girls with bright eyes, and with charming faces (they always have charming faces), standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet,—and all that sort of thing. I missed all that. And then, usually, if one is not a girl, one is a heroine—of the kind you read about. But I am not a heroine, either. A heroine is beautiful—eyes like the sea shoot opaque glances from under drooping lids—walks with undulating movements, her bright smile haunts one still, falls methodically in love with a man—always with a man, eats things (they are always called “viands”) with a delicate appetite, and on special occasions her voice is full of tears. I do none of these things. I am not beautiful. I do not walk with undulating movements—indeed, I have never seen any one walk so, except, perhaps, a cow that has been overfed. My bright smile haunts no one. I shoot no opaque glances from my eyes, which are not like the sea by any means. I have never eaten any viands, and my appetite for what I do eat is most excellent. And my voice has never yet, to my knowledge, been full of tears. No, I am not a heroine. There never seem to be any plain heroines except Jane Eyre, and she was very unsatisfactory. She should have entered into marriage with her beloved Rochester in the first place. I should have, let there be a dozen mad wives upstairs. But I suppose the author thought she must give her heroine some desirable thing—high moral principles, since she was not beautiful. Some people say beauty is a curse. It may be true, but I’m sure I should not have at all minded being cursed a little. And I know several persons who might well say the same. But, anyway, I wish some one would write a book about a plain, bad heroine so that I might feel in real sympathy with her.

Stock watering, bribery, and stock corners were all methods to his madness, but for good reason. "My God, you don't suppose you can run a railroad in accordance with the statutes of New York, do you?

Symbolically, at the entrance to the new pyramid complexes stands the nuclear reactor, which first manifested its powers to the multitude by a typical trick of Bronze Age deities: the instant extermination of all the inhabitants of a populous city. Of this early display of nuclear power, as of all the vastly augmented potentialities for destruction that so rapidly followed, one can say what Melville's mad captain in 'Moby Dick' said of himself: "All my means and methods are sane: my purpose is mad." For the splitting of the atom was the beautiful consummation-and the confirmation-of the experimental and mathematical modes of thinking that since the seventeenth century have inordinately increased the human command of physical forces.

Outside it dawned on me that my mother hadn't specified the method of my father's suicide. She'd just said he'd committed suicide. It seemed horrible to me that I hadn't thought to ask. I decided not to pack. I had clothes in my bedroom at home. I still lived there, in a sense. I hadn't planned on coming home for the summer. He'd been mad about that, I thought. Or had he? I'd reached a point where I couldn't tell if he was mad about everything, or nothing, or wasn't mad at all.

Of course, we are all familiar with politicians who lie, break promises, or obfuscate the truth. President George H. W. Bush’s “Read my lips” promise not to raise taxes went bust. President George W. Bush’s weapons of mass destruction in Iraq were never found. President Barack Obama’s “If you like it, you can keep it” vow about Americans being able to keep the doctors and health insurance plans they liked never held up. Each of these presidents made statements they knew might not prove to be true. Gaslighting is far more aggressive than any of these misguided lies. It’s an elaborate scheme undertaken with the goal of gaining control over people. Trump is an expert gaslighter and what I want you to understand is that there is a very specific method to his madness.

This is one of the advantages to being a dilettante: the freedom to ask questions experts consider laughable. The dilettante works alone, a solitary figure, no colleagues to shock, no tenure at risk. Not only are we free to ask naive questions, there’s nobody around to tell us how things are supposed to be done. We make up new rules, rig together new methods, and in doing so sidestep familiar pitfalls. We might still lurch into a ditch, but it will be a ditch of our own making and not one already filled with dinted scholars.