Quotes About Rebellion

In one way, I suppose, I have been "in denial" for some time, knowingly burning the candle at both ends and finding that it often gives a lovely light. But for precisely that reason, I can't see myself smiting my brow with shock or hear myself whining about how it's all so unfair: I have been taunting the Reaper into taking a free scythe in my direction and have now succumbed to something so predictable and banal that it bores even me.

Sartre distinguished between rebels and revolutionaries. The rebel, he says, secretly quite wants the world and the system to remain as it is. Its permanence, after all, is the guarantee of his continuing ability to rebel. The revolutionary, in contrast, really wishes to overthrow and replace existing conditions. The second enterprise is obviously no laughing matter.

The lawbreaking itch is not always an anarchic one. In the first place, the human personality has (or ought to have) a natural resistance to coercion. We don't like to be pushed and shoved, even if it's in a direction we might choose to go. In the second place, the human personality has (or ought to have) a natural sense of the preposterous.

You must feel not that you want to but that you have to. It's worth emphasizing, too, because there is a relationship, inexact to be sure but a relationship, between this desire or need and the ambition to rely upon internal exile, or dissent; the decision to live at a slight acute angle to society.

I'm afraid, ha, ha, I find more inspiration in the Marquis de Sade.

This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as non-traditional grammar, split infinitives, and the odd wank.

Inside, I was like: Ha, suck my spiky rubber strap-on, vampyre hunter!

Shylock repointed his twitching, accusatory digit at his daughter. "You do not say such things in my house. You—you—you—you—" "Run along, love, it appears that Papa's been stricken with an apoplexy of the second person.

You motherfucking kitties need to step the fuck off!

it wasn't so much like the hands of time had stood still here, more like they'd been thrown in the air in exasperation, the clock declaring whatever! I'm outta here.

At "tooth fairy," Sophie popped her head out the door. "I will smack that bitch up and take her bag of quarters! I will not be fucked with!

Why are you lying on the floor?" "Solidarity. And we ran out of cognac. This is my preferred out of cognac posture.

A Bluesman hates to be told what to do. Authority rankles him, inspires his rebellion, and plays to his need to self-destruct. A Bluesman doesn't take to having a boss unless he's on a chain gang (for the chain gang boss ranks below only a mean old woman and a sweet young thing in the hierarchy of the Blues Muse, followed closely by bad liquor, a dead dog, and the Man).

Raziel! Go forth into the land and lay waste unto two good-size Wal-Marts, slay until blood doth flow from all bargains and all the buildings are but rubble — and pick up a few Snickers bars for yourself.

He crossed against the light, limping slightly under the weight of the subtext.

will smack that bitch up and take her bag of quarters! I will not be fucked with!

So I like slept till eleven, because we're on Christmas break, only it's called winter break now because Jesus is AN OPPRESSIVE ZOMBIE BASTARD AND WE DO NOT BOW DOWN TO HIS BIRTHDAY! At least not at Allen Ginsberg High School, we don't. (Go, Fighting Beatniks!) But it's all good, 'cause I'm going to have to get used to getting up later if I'm going to be a creature of the night.

But ask yourself this Eragon: If gods exist, have they been good custodians of alagaesia? Death, sickness, poverty, tyranny and countless other miseries stalk the land. If this is the handiwork of divine beings, then they are to be rebelled against and overthrown, not given obeisance, obedience, and reverance.

Let's drop rocks on them!

A dragon who was not free to do as he or she wished was not a dragon at all.

Every Chihuahua in America Lines Up to Take a Bite out of Byron

This is teenage madness.

The poet in Le Cagot had confected for himself the role of the miles gloriosus, the Falstaffian clown—but with a unique difference: his braggadocio was founded on a record of reckless, laughing courage in numberless guerrilla actions against the fascist who oppressed his people in Spain.

5:16 I shotgun two beers, piss out the bedroom window, catcall passing girls, burp violently, put cage fighting on tv, play with myself. I feel manly again.