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It is fully certain that people are necessarily mad, so that not being mad would be another form of madness.
2d0634a7479001c19ea2e72c0591ed7e Mad @@ ;; QQ @@ ;; QQ Weekend @@ ;;
ToRaiseaManItTakesaVillageofChildren I returned home a short while ago to attend the funeral of a childhood friend. While there and exchanging pleasantries, I was told a tale so peculiar I decided immediately to determine its veracity myself. A man whom I had known as a boy that had (last I had heard) succumbed early in life to some kind of madness was rumored to be living as an ascetic recluse deep in the woods west of town. For some reason, I was filled with curiosity as to his fate and state of mental clarity, and I decided to pay him a visit before leaving town. The road heading to his cottage degenerated slowly from asphalt to gravel and then overly vegetative dirt in its thirty mile deviation from civilization, culminating finally in a unkempt game trail, under the soft soil of which I could occasionally feel what may have once been an inviting trail of stepping stones. There was no flickering fire coming from the windows, no rocking chair, no clothesline. In fact, besides a small herbal garden, the residence looked rather moder, although unmistakably rural. I knocked. The door opened almost immediately, but deliberately, which seemed somehow more dramatic. No bearde oldd face met me, but instead one that was unmistakably that of an old friend: intelligence and calm behind kind, familiar eyes. He embraced me. “What a pleasant surprise!” was his genuine greeting, laughing just as sincerely as he once had with that laugh I remembered from the schoolyard so long ago; I marveled that such a laugh had ever broken bread with insanity. “Well I was in town, and heard that you were and I came to…” “See if I was crazy, naturally. Please come in.” The interior was just as efficient as I had noted before, and I made note that the man did not seem to purposefully live uncomfortably as I had been led to believe. I made myself comfortable on one of a pair of chairs in the corner of his open space that seemed to serve as his living room, and he brought over a fresh cup of coffee. Decaf, he assured me. He seemed to anticipate my curiosity, and as he sat down he began to tell his story. “When you discuss madness, people speak of hearing voices in their heads that tell them to do things. Foreign voices. This isn’t entirely true, or rather, it’s an analogy. Unless its a particular manifestation of the madness, those people you and I