When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.
A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute.
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.