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" "So far from the position holding true, that great wit (or genius, in our modern way of speaking), has a necessary alliance with insanity, the greatest wits, on the contrary, will ever be found in the sanest writers. It is impossible for the mind to conceive a mad Shakespeare. The greatness of wit, by which the poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, manifests itself in the admirable balance of all faculties. Madness is the disproportionate straining or excess of any one of them....The ground of the mistake is, that men, finding in the raptures of the higher poetry a condition of exaltation, to which they have no parallel in their own experience, besides the spurious resemblance of it in dreams and fevers, impute a state of dreaminess and fever to the poet. But the true poet dreams being awake. He is not possessed by his subject, he has dominion over it.
Charles Lamb (10 February 1775 – 27 December 1834) was an English essayist and poet, best known for his Essays of Elia and for the children's book Tales from Shakespeare, which he produced along with his sister, Mary Lamb.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Aveva trovato un piacere bizzarro, si rifiutava di chiamarlo una virtù, nel prendersi cura di quel tipo di persone che avevano da lungo tempo cessato di aspettarsi gentilezza o amicizia dagli uomini, ma si accontentavano di accettare i riluttanti servigi che gli strumenti e i dipendenti, spesso insensibili, di quelle benintenzionate istituzioni somministrano ai poveri ammalati sotto loro tutela.
Non sono medicine, brodi e carne dura, servite ad ore fisse con tutte le rigide formalità di una prigione - non è l'autosufficiente elemosina di un letto su cui morire - ciò che l'uomo in punto di morte si aspetta dai suoi simili.
Sguardi, attenzioni, consolazioni - in una parola solidarietà, è ciò di cui un uomo ha più bisogno al terribile chiudersi delle sue sofferenze mortali. Uno sguardo gentile, un sorriso, una goccia di acqua fredda per le labbra rinsecchite - per queste cose un uomo vi benedirà nella morte.
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Nothing comes to him, not spoiled by the sophisticating medium of moral uses. The Universe — that Great Book, as it has been called — is to him indeed, to all intents and purposes, a book, out of which he is doomed to read tedious homilies to distasting schoolboys. — Vacations themselves are none to him, he is only rather worse off than before ; for commonly he has some intrusive upper-boy fastened upon him at such times ; some cadet of a great family ; some neglected lump of nobility ; or gentry ; that he must drag after him to the play, to the Panorama, to Mr Bartley's Orrery, to the Panopticon, or into the country, to a friend's house, or his favourite watering-place. Wherever he goes, this uneasy shadow attends him. A boy is at his board, and in his path, and in all his movements. He is boy-rid, sick of perpetual boy.