Quotes About Imprisonment

A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.

Two men looked out from prison bars, One saw the mud, the other saw stars.

I've shackled myself with the prison bars of ill health.

The only thing worse than having a family, I discovered, is not having a family. My rejection of bourgeois virtues as mean-spirited and antithetical to real human development could not long survive contact with situations in which those virtues were entirely absent; and a rejection of everything associated with one's childhood is not so much an escape from that childhood as an imprisonment by it.

Tu n'étais plus qu'un insecte prisonnier d'une araignée repue, qui te gardait en réserve pour un repas à venir. Elle t'avait capturé pour te savourer en toute quiétude, quand l'envie lui viendrait de goûter ton sang. Tu imaginais ses pattes velues, ses gros yeux globuleux, implacables, son ventre mou, gorgé de viande, vibrant, gélatineux, et ses crocs venimeux, sa bouche noire qui allait te sucer la vie.

Fool! The Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself: thy Condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same Ideal out of: what matters whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the Form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? O thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth: the thing thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only see!

And when he stared at the sum total of his crimes on the screen, it seemed to him that they didn't amount to a whole lot. He hadn't killed anyone. He looked again: there must be something missing. Nope. He'd done twenty years for crimes he hadn't committed.

The canary began to sing again. The sun had struck it, and its throat and tiny breast had filled with song. Francis gazed at it for a long time, not speaking, his mouth hanging half opened, his eyes dimmed with tears. The canary is like man's soul, he whispered finally. It sees bars round it, but instead if despairing, it sings. It sings, and wait and see, Brother Leo: one day its song shall break the bars.

A crust of lard, habit, and cowardice envelops the soul; no matter what it craves from the depths of its prison, the lard, habit, and cowardice carry out something entirely different.

Perhaps life itself occurred as a sort of prison she felt compelled to escape.

It's a prison. It's twenty-four-hour-a-day life in a jail cell. We never get out, not even for one second. All we can do, all day long, is look for ways to survive. Nobody needs to teach us tricks. We brainstorm our own tricks all day long. When real anorexics compare notes, we've already figured out all the same tricks—and each one of us did it on our own.

I've never been free in my whole life. Inside I've always chased myself. I've become intolerable to myself. I live in a lacerating duality. I'm seemingly free, but I'm a prisoner inside of me.

Like a prisoner without hope of parole she took what entertainment she could find to ease the passage of time.

To forbid the thought of escape, even that slightest butterfly thought of escape, was to murder one's humanity.

If someone had seen our faces on the journey from Auschwitz to a Bavarian camp as we beheld the mountains of Salzburg with their summits glowing in the sunset, through the little barred windows of the prison carriage, he would never have believed that those were the faces of men who had given up all hope of life and liberty. Despite that factor - or maybe because of it - we were carried away by nature's beauty

The prisoner passed from the first to the second phase; the phase of relative apathy, in which he achieved a kind of emotional death.

As the inner life of the prisoner tended to become more intense, he also experienced the beauty of art and nature as never before. Under their influence he sometimes even forgot his own frightful circumstances.

As the inner life of the prisoner tended to become more intense, he also experienced the beauty of art and nature as never before.

One of the prisoners, who on his arrival marched with a long column of new inmates from the station to the camp, told me later that he had felt as though he were marching at his own funeral. His life had seemed to him absolutely without future. He regarded it as over and done, as if he had already died.

Anything outside the barbed wire became remote - out of reach and, in a way, unreal. The events and the people outside, all the normal life there, had a ghostly aspect for the prisoner. The outside life, that is, as much as he could see of it, appeared to him almost as it might have to a dead man who looked at it from another world.

that any form of government that required the repression, imprisonment, and execution of those who disagreed with it was certainly not a government of the people.

Are we not all prisoners? She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell, and she had felt that was true of life—one scratched on the wall.

Los ojos de los otros, nuestras prisiones; sus pensamientos, nuestras jaulas.

Gli occhi degli altri sono le nostre prigioni, i loro pensieri le nostre gabbie.