Quotes About Rebellion

I don't know, it is a very quiet rebellion. […] I don't get angry. I sit quietly in the corner and say 'no'.

I hate ready-made suits, button-down collars, and sports shirts.

Which must be why Bondy the poet says that real poetry must hurt, as if you'd forgotten you wrapped a razor blade in your hadkerchief and you blow your nose, no book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it's meant to make you jump out of bed in your underwear and run and beat the author's brains out

real poetry must hurt, as if you'd forgotten you wrapped a razor blade in your handkerchief and you blow your nose, no book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it's meant to make you jump out of bed in your underwear and run and beat the author's brains out, [...]

But one never has it easy with that son of mine, one has one devil of a time." Mom was conversing and setting spoons and forks on either side of the Sevres plates "because since he was a youngster he was always, still is, elsewhere, home was hell to him, he just came in to sleep, morning to night he'd be out on Polni Street, the entire town knew him, because he was forever at somebody else's, always wanting to be somewhere other than where he was.

Everyone is possessed, at times, with the desire to rebel. Man has refused to live in a primitive state of nature, which is why angels drive ambulances and gather up other angels who have been broken in half.

You're not supposed to have salt." "I'm not supposed to have cancer, either. If you don't bring me some brandy, I'm kicking you off my property.

Pop music often tells you everything is OK, while rock music tells you that it's not OK, but you can change it.

Rock 'n' roll is ridiculous. It's absurd. In the past, U2 was trying to duck that. Now we're wrapping our arms around it and giving it a great big kiss.

The great moments of rock 'n' roll were never off in some corner of the music world, in a self-constructed ghetto.

I think I have a kind of Tourette's syndrome where if you're not supposed to say something, it becomes very attractive to do so. You're in a rock band – what can't you talk about? God? Okay, here we go. You're supposed to write songs about sex and drugs. Well, no I won't.

I hadn't done drugs since sniffing Lady Esquire shoe polish when I was fifteen. I didn't need to. I felt the pinch of wonder.

Rock 'n' roll is the sound of revenge, all right.

There's a truly great Irish poet. His name is Brendan Kennelly, and he has this epic poem called the Book of Judas, and there's a line in that poem that never leaves my mind, it says: "If you want to serve the age, betray it." What does that mean, to betray the age? Well to me betraying the age means exposing its conceits, it's foibles; it's phony moral certitudes. It means telling the secrets of the age and facing harsher truths.

Got 'ny sense! See here, bub, does your mother know you're out?

Paitsi rakkaus, joka epäilemättä kuuluu ensimmäiselle sijalle, myös jalo kapina epäoikeudenmukaista todellisuutta vastaan on sittenkin suurin asia, jonka avulla ihmisarvon pelastamista voidaan edistää

Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. — George Orwell, 1984

The word discipline sometimes touches a slightly rebellious chord in our natures. Remember that it comes from the word disciple.

I am an anti-moralism moralist and I write righteously indignant diatribes against righteous indignation. I contradict myself. I have great ideas and a lot to say, but I'm not much of a writer. I don't learn to control myself and do what is required.

If an oppressor can shackle a people in chains and eradicate even the slightest remembrance of their former life of freedom and concomitantly assassinate their hope for future freedom, it may be possible to convince the oppressed that the chains around their wrists, ankles, and minds are natural.

Gavin Chambers was at the window of his office high-rise in midtown, looking down at the "protestors"—a ragtag group of aging grunge-ola that probably numbered no more than twenty—mulling inside the building's courtyard

Aaron looked strung-out, wearing a denim jacket over a grungy white T-shirt—the latest in heroin chic minus the chic.

Myron got out of the car. There was a padlock on one end of the chain. Using his heel, Myron kicked down on it. The lock broke. The chain fell to the ground with a heavy clunk. "We're trespassing," Myron said. "Let's live on the edge, old friend. That's where all the goodies reside." As

Why let them order you about? Why let them tell you to hurry and scurry like ants or maggots? Take your time! Saunter a while! Enjoy the sunshine, enjoy the breeze, let life carry you at your own pace! Don't be slaves of time, it's a helluva way to die, slowly, by degrees...down with the Ticktockman!