We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. [...] You must be, or you wouldn't be here.

That's the secret of existence. We're all a little mad.

We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.

"All Mad"

'He is mad as a hare, poor fellow,
And should be in chains,' you say,
I haven't a doubt of your statement,
But who isn't mad, I pray?
Why, the world is a great asylum,
And the people are all insane,
Gone daft with pleasure or folly,
Or crazed with passion and pain.

The infant who shrieks at a shadow,
The child with his Santa Claus faith,
The woman who worships Dame Fashion,
Each man with his notions of death,
The miser who hoards up his earnings,
The spendthrift who wastes them too soon,
The scholar grown blind in his delving,
The lover who stares at the moon.

The poet who thinks life a paean,
The cynic who thinks it a fraud,
The youth who goes seeking for pleasure,
The preacher who dares talk of God,
All priests with their creeds and their croaking,
All doubters who dare to deny,
The gay who find aught to wake laughter,
The sad who find aught worth a sigh,
Whoever is downcast or solemn,
Whoever is gleeful and gay,
Are only the dupes of delusions — We are all of us — all of us mad.

We all go a little mad sometimes.

Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.

All men are mad in some way or the other;

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.

"We all go a little mad sometimes"
Norman Bates

A good compromise leaves everyone angry.

We've all become god's madmen, all of us.

There are a great many good people, and a great many sane people here this afternoon. Unfortunately, by a kind of coincidence, all the good people are mad, and all the sane people are wicked.

A great many men are mad, and no one knows it. They do not know it themselves