He was much in the right, whoever it was, that first called anger a short madness; for they have both of them the same symptoms; and there is so wonderful a resemblance betwixt the transports of choler and those of frenzy, that it is a hard matter to know the one from the other. A bold, fierce, and threatening countenance, as pale as ashes, and, in the same moment, as red as blood; a glaring eye, a wrinkled brow, violent motions, the hands restless and perpetually in action, wringing and menacing, snapping of the joints, stamping with the feet, the hair starting, trembling of the lips, a forced and squeaking voice; the speech false and broken, deep and frequent sighs, and ghastly looks; the veins swell, the heart pants, the knees knock; with a hundred dismal accidents that are common to both distempers. Neither is anger a bare resemblance only of madness, but many times an irrevocable transition into the thing itself. How many persons have we known, read, and heard of, that have lost their wits in a passion, and never came to themselves again? It is therefore to be avoided, not only for moderation’s sake, but also for health. Now, if the outward appearance of anger be so foul and hideous, how deformed must that miserable mind be that is harassed with it? for it leaves no place either for counsel or friendship, honesty or good manners; no place either for the exercise of reason, or for the offices of life. If I were to describe it, I would draw a tiger bathed in blood, sharp set, and ready to take a leap at his prey; or dress it up as the poets represent the furies, with whips, snakes, and flames; it should be sour, livid, full of scars, and wallowing in gore, raging up and down, destroying, grinning, bellowing, and pursuing; sick of all other things, and most of all, itself. It turns beauty into deformity, and the calmest counsels into fierceness: it disorders our very garments, and fills the mind with horror. How abominable is it in the soul then, when it appears so hideous even through the bones, the skin and so many impediments! Is not he a madman that has lost the government of himself, and is tossed hither and thither by his fury as by a tempest? the executioner and the murderer of his nearest friends? The smallest matter moves it, and makes us unsociable and inaccessible. It does all things by violence, as well upon itself as others; and it is, in short; the master of all passions.
Whoever first called anger a short madness was absolutely right. Both conditions share the same symptoms. The similarities between fits of rage and episodes of insanity are so striking that it's hard to tell them apart. Picture this: a bold, fierce, threatening face that turns pale as ash one moment and red as blood the next. The eyes glare, the brow wrinkles, violent movements take over. The hands never stop moving, wringing and threatening, joints snapping, feet stamping. Hair stands on end, lips tremble, the voice becomes forced and squeaky. Speech turns false and broken, punctuated by deep, frequent sighs and ghastly looks. Veins swell, the heart pounds, knees knock. A hundred other disturbing symptoms appear in both conditions. Anger isn't just similar to madness. Many times it becomes an irreversible transformation into madness itself. How many people have we known, read about, or heard of who lost their minds in a fit of rage and never recovered? We should avoid anger not just for the sake of moderation, but for our health. If anger looks so foul and hideous on the outside, imagine how deformed the miserable mind must be that harbors it. It leaves no room for good judgment or friendship, honesty or good manners. There's no space for reason or for the normal duties of life. If I had to describe it, I would draw a tiger bathed in blood, hungry and ready to pounce on its prey. Or I'd dress it up like the poets show the furies, with whips, snakes, and flames. It should look sour, bruised, covered in scars, wallowing in gore, raging everywhere, destroying, grinning, bellowing, and pursuing. It's sick of everything else, and most of all, itself. Anger turns beauty into ugliness and calm advice into violence. It messes up our very clothes and fills the mind with horror. How disgusting it must be in the soul when it appears so hideous even through bones, skin, and so many other barriers! Isn't someone a madman who has lost control of himself and gets tossed around by his fury like a ship in a storm? He becomes the executioner and murderer of his closest friends. The smallest thing sets it off and makes us antisocial and unapproachable. It does everything through violence, both to itself and others. In short, it's the master of all emotions.
There is not any creature so terrible and dangerous by nature, but it becomes fiercer by anger. Not that beasts have human affections, but certain impulses they have which come very near them. The boar foams, champs, and whets his tusks; the bull tosses his horns in the air, bounds, and tears up the ground with his feet; the lion roars and swinges himself with his tail; the serpent swells; and there is a ghastly kind of fellness in the aspect of a mad dog. How great a wickedness is it now to indulge a violence, that does not only turn a man into a beast, but makes even the most outrageous of beasts themselves to be more dreadful and mischievous! A vice that carries along with it neither pleasure nor profit, neither honor nor security; but on the contrary, destroys us to all the comfortable and glorious purposes of our reasonable being. Some there are, that will have the root of it to be the greatness of mind. And, why may we not as well entitle impudence to courage, whereas the one is proud, the other brave; the one is gracious and gentle, the other rude and furious? At the same rate we may ascribe magnanimity to avarice, luxury, and ambition, which are all but splendid impotences, without measure and without foundation. There is nothing great but what is virtuous, nor indeed truly great, but what is also composed and quiet. Anger, alas! is but a wild impetuous blast, an empty tumor, the very infirmity of woman and children; a brawling, clamorous evil: and the more noise the less courage; as we find it commonly, that the boldest tongues have the faintest hearts.
No creature is naturally so terrible and dangerous that anger doesn't make it even fiercer. Animals don't have human emotions, but they do have certain impulses that come very close. The boar foams at the mouth, gnashes its teeth, and sharpens its tusks. The bull tosses its horns in the air, leaps around, and tears up the ground with its hooves. The lion roars and lashes itself with its tail. The serpent swells up. A mad dog has a ghastly, savage look in its eyes. How wicked it is to give in to a violence that not only turns a person into a beast, but makes even the most savage beasts more dreadful and destructive! This vice brings no pleasure or profit, no honor or safety. Instead, it destroys everything comfortable and glorious about our rational nature. Some people claim that anger comes from greatness of mind. Why not call shamelessness courage then? One is proud, the other brave. One is gracious and gentle, the other rude and violent. We might as well call greed, luxury, and ambition noble qualities. These are all just impressive weaknesses, without measure or foundation. Nothing is great unless it's virtuous. Nothing is truly great unless it's also calm and composed. Anger is just a wild, reckless storm, an empty swelling, the weakness of women and children. It's a loud, quarrelsome evil. The more noise it makes, the less courage it shows. We commonly find that the boldest tongues belong to the weakest hearts.