Is everyone really crazy but me?

They raise the question of whether I’ve been crazy, and am suddenly sane, or whether I’ve been sane up to now, and have suddenly gone crazy.

I am crazy, I know, Thérèse. But who is not?

Do you know one sign that you've woken up? It's when you are asking yourself, "Am I crazy, or are all of them crazy?

Crazy people don't know they're crazy. I know I'm crazy, therefore I'm not crazy, isn't that crazy?

They're all crazy. They're all crazy except you and me. Sometimes I have me doubts about you.

"You're crazy!"
"Undoubtedly. But look around you. You followed me in here. Who's crazier? The crazy or the crazy who follows him?"

I am stark sane, but my mind is erratically crazy.

In how many minds
should I go crazy?
whom should I ask?

Because that’s really something I can’t stand — when people refer to themselves as crazy. The truly crazy are labeled so on the grounds that they see nothing wrong with their behavior. They forge ahead, lighting fires in public buildings and defecating in frying pans without the slightest notion that they are out of step with the rest of society. That, to me, is crazy.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

I wonder if I am going crazy or if I do not love my family enough, or if it is the opposite, if I love them too much. If I am the only sane person I know.

Sometimes I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.

But I'm Crazy. I swear to God I am.