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I've learned not to be as maniacal as I used to be.

We're all well-acquainted with depression, we all know what the low moods are, but the mania was not something I knew much about. I didn't know that it would make someone dress extravagantly or start to pun, and to stay up and drink.

The mania is like wasps under the skin, like my head's going to explode with ideas.

Around mid-life everyone goes maniac a little bit.

To portray a maniac offers a compelling challenge.

Whereas the melancholic exhibits a state of general inhibition, in the manic patient even normal inhibitions of the instincts are partly or wholly abolished.

I have spent my life going from mania to mania. Somehow it has all paid off.

Repression in the human psyche is tightly bundled. When it has been pulled out of the sprung package so often it is perhaps difficult to push it back in the box.

The mania started with insomnia and not eating and being driven, driven to find an apartment, driven to see everybody, driven to do New York, driven to never shut up.

I'm sort of like a maniac, and I can't get out of it.