Quotes About Murder

There's no part of the ceremony where the priest, acting in the place of God, warns the guests not to murder the bridegroom because it might jeopardize the succession.

He'd long been wearing the underclothes of his female victims but now he took to appearing in their outerwear as well. A gothic doll in illfit clothes, its carmine mouth floating detached and bright in the white landscape.

They camped that night on the foreplain at the foot of a talus slope and the murder that had been reckoned upon took place.

He was sat as before save headless, drenched in blood, the cigarillo still between his fingers, leaning toward the dark and smoking grotto in the flames where his life had gone. Glanton rose. The men moved away. No one spoke. When they set out in the dawn the headless man was sitting like a murdered anchorite discalced in ashes and sark. Someone had taken his gun but the boots stood where he'd put them.

White Was he killed? Black I hope so. We buried him.

That's the recoil of the same urge. The anarchist, the criminal, the murderer, he is only the extreme lover acting on the recoil. But it is love: only in recoil. It flies back, the love-urge, and becomes a horror.

How extraordinary, and what a tribute to ignorance and religious hypocrisy, is the fact that in the minds of most people, even those of liberals, only murder makes men. The slave pleaded; he was humble; he protected the women of the South, and the world ignored him. The slave killed white men; and behold, he was a man!

Behold little Belgium and her pitiable plight, but has the world forgotten Congo? What Belgium now suffers is not half, not even a tenth, of what she has done to black Congo since Stanley's great dream of 1880. Down the dark forests of inmost Africa sailed this modern Sir Galahad, in the name of the noble-minded men of several nations, to introduce commerce and civilization. What came of it? Rubber and murder, slavery in its worst form, wrote Glave in 1895.

My neck and shoulders are killing me. Hard to focus on writing about murder, doom, shagging, our hopeless future & other comedy etc etc.

Really?" Mister Sun said. "You killed a man with the same knife you use to make brunch, and you're suddenly squeamish about a hammer.

From his vantage, three steps back and to the right, Tallow could see Rosato's eye a good five inches outside Rosato's head and still attached to his eye socket by a mess of red worms. In that single second, Tallow abstractedly realized that in his last moment of life, James Rosato could see his killer from two different angles.

What Mogo did was to take ultimate action to improve his quality of life. This is at the root of murder. We kill people to make our own lives better. We kill them because they are obstacles to our desires, because they make us unhappy, because they burden us, or because they keep calling us fucking wizards. Murder increases happiness.

She outright murdered Clough with her eyes.

Murder increases happiness.

Carnstein, with a soft smile and a grace and attention that bordered on the tender, very precisely beat Isaac Goldmark to death.

The Klan had used fear, intimidation and murder to brutally oppress over African-Americans who sought justice and equality and it sought to respond to the young workers of the civil rights movement in Mississippi in the same way.

the shock which he undoubtedly had felt was the result of not expecting people to murder other people. "Whereas they naturally do," he said to himself. "The normal thing with an unpleasant intrusion is to try and exclude it – human or not. So silly not to be prepared for these things. Some people, as De Quincey said, have a natural aptitude for being murdered. To kill or to be killed as a perfectly reasonable thing . . .

Wars, conflict, it's all business. One murder makes a villain; millions a hero. Numbers sanctify.

People in uniform will tell you that no one life is more important than another. The lives of a white cop, a black fireman, a minister and a drug addict all have equal value. But the presumption is that if a person in uniform is killed with impunity, if such a killer is allowed to run free, then no regular citizen is safe. So for the sake of civil order, when a person in uniform is murdered, heads must get knocked, doors must be kicked in and every available cop is put to the task.

Ahoy, to the Phantom Rider, Lincoln Slade! He will not be speaking at the Nerd Cruise banquet. Mr. Slade is here for personal reasons (murder, stalking).

Why did you come here?' Gretchen asked. 'To kill you,' Archie said. 'How badly do you want it?' 'Pretty badly,' Archie said.

We need him dead or in jail, and I'm probably a crappy murderer. – Libby

Did you have to murder him? Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Well, the deed's done. No use complaining.

Self-interest is the only constant in life, and murder is always preferred to impotence. —Childermass