Phaedrus: 5

Symposium: 2

Parmenides: 2

Ion: 1

Theaetetus: 1

All others: 0

Says rather a lot about me, actually.

As the worshipping Corybantes are not in their senses when they dance, so the lyric poets are not in their senses when  make these lovely lyric poems. No, when once they launch unto harmony and rhythm, they are seizes with the Bacchic transport, and are possessed—as the bacchants, when possessed, draw milk and honey from the rivers, but not when in their senses. So the spirit of the lyric poet works, according to their own report. For the poets tell us, don’t they, that the melodies they bring us are gathered from rills that run with honey, out of glens and gardens of the Muses, and they bring them as the bees do honey, flying like the bees? And what they say is true, for the poet is a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself, and reason is no longer in him.

Plato, Ion

I’ve decided that it’s too self-indulgent to turn off the alarm clock on weekends. The time to get up is the time to get up. And then actually sleeping until the alarm goes off? That’s just lazy.