If we believe the Greek poet, "sometimes it's good to be a little crazy." Plato could never write great poetry when he was completely sober. And if we trust Aristotle, every great genius has had a touch of madness. The mind can't speak in lofty language — the kind that rises above ordinary people — unless it gets excited. When the mind pushes away the boring limits of everyday custom and rises up, filled with sacred fire, only then can it sing a song too grand for human lips. As long as it stays calm and contained, it can't reach any real splendor. It must break away from the well-worn path and whip itself into a frenzy. It must bite at the bit and rush forward, carrying its rider to heights that would be too scary to climb alone.
If we believe the Greek poet, "it is sometimes pleasant to be mad"; again, Plato always knocked in vain at the door of poetry when he was sober; or, if we trust Aristotle, no great genius has ever been without a touch of insanity. The mind cannot use lofty language, above that of the common herd, unless it be excited. When it has spurned aside the commonplace environments of custom, and rises sublime, instinct with sacred fire, then alone can it chant a song too grand for mortal lips: as long as it continues to dwell within itself it cannot rise to any pitch of splendour: it must break away from the beaten track, and lash itself to frenzy, till it gnaws the curb and rushes away bearing up its rider to heights whither it would fear to climb when alone.