Quotes About Imprisonment

In durance vile here must I wake and weep,And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Isn't it greatly in my favor that I don't belong here but in jail?

Silas Lee was sent to prison for manslaughter and died there.

We're not in the habit of shutting people up in dark, damp dungeons, said Marilla dryly, especially as they're rather scarce in Avonlea.

Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her.

my fur is matted, my eyes refuse to refocus, my sthondat-begotten room is too small, my microwave heater heats all meat to the same temperature, and it is the wrong temperature, and I cannot get it fixed.

Dear sir: twelve hours is as twelve years to me. I imagine you in your home, smiling, thinking of me. That I am your heart's secret fills me with song. I wish I could sing of you here in my cage. You are my heart's hidden poem. I reread you, memorize you, every moment we're apart.

In chains and darkness, wherefore should I stay, And mourn in prison, while I keep the key.

I've heard the expression climbing walls, but I never thought I'd experience it, let alone like that," she murmured, her mouth curling into what was probably a dreamy smile.

The labor leader Eugene V. Debs, for whom Hardie had campaigned years before, left a sickbed in 1918 to give a series of antiwar speeches, for which he, too, was thrown behind bars. The judge told him he might get a lesser sentence if he repented. "Repent?" asked Debs. "Repent? Repent for standing like a man?" Still in his cell in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, in 1920, he would receive nearly a million votes for president on the Socialist ticket.

Beyond the light was that distant line of horizon she had glimpsed from on high—a line like a solitary prison bar, needing no intersection with other bars to keep her jailed. And she decided then and there that she would not stay here and be mocked; she would not.

This way and stop looking so positive: optimism doesn't fit a prisoner's profile. Poe obediently lowered his head and adopted as morose an expression as possible.

Who imprisoned me here? Who keeps me here? Who can release me? Who's controlling and constraining my life except...me?

I know every inch of this cell. This cell knows every inch of me. Except one.

Tomorrow they would all go home, all except his son. And he would stay in the place where they would put him, in the great prison in Pretoria, in the barred and solitary cell; and mercy failing, would stay there till he was hanged. Aye, but the hand that had murdered had once pressed the mother's breast into the thirsting mouth, had stolen into the father's hand when they went out into the dark. Aye, but the murderer afraid of death had once been a child afraid of the night.

Come now, solemnest feast on the road to eternal freedom, Death, and destroy those fetters that bow, those walls that imprison this our transient life, these souls that linger in darkness, so that at last we see what is here withheld from our vision. Long did we seek you, freedom, in discipline, action and suffering. Now that we die, in the face of God himself we behold you.

Satori," ripeté Xue Xin. "Se i nostri pensieri ci imprigionano, è ragionevole che possano anche liberarci.

The prisoner is not the one who has commited a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over.

The table and chair legs were like bars of the cage around me. This time they weren't keeping me in, they were keeping her out.

Then once you get people locked up, it's an incredibly inhuman system.

Can the imagination, any more than the boy, be held prisoner ?" - from the foreword to the 1976 edition of "The Painted Bird

Do the places we inhabit confine us by their very nature? Are we always imprisoned, eternally imprisoned, in body, in place, in community, do even our minds imprison us? What would it be like to be free, even for a second? Is that death? Do we live only in that final moment when we flee our shape?

Capital punishment turns the state into a murderer. But imprisonment turns the state into a gay dungeon-master.

From May 1717 to April 1718, Voltaire sat comfortably in the infamous prison insulting the Regent and reading Homer.