Quotes About Chaos

Where there is peace, there cannot be chaos; the two cannot coexist at the same time.

Richard's bookshelves weren't alphabetized. He never had time to alphabetize them. He was always too busy- looking for books he couldn't find.

Of course the whole drove was housed in the house, and great guns--well, I never saw anything like it! Nor anything like it. And never smelt anything like it. It was like an insurrection in a gasometer.

El bibliotecario se mandó la parte corriendo de acá para allá cargado de libros, con todo el alboroto y el escándalo que les encanta a las autoridades insignificantes.

Why, the whole front of that host shot into the sky with a thundercrash, and became a whirling tempest of rags and fragments; and along the ground lay a thick wall of smoke that hid what was left of the multitude from our sight.

As long as you're in your right mind don't you ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a permanent riot. And there

promising the possibility of discovery while all along dissolving into chaotic ambiguities too blurry to ever completely comprehend.

And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.

Within minutes, mounds of concrete and earth were stacked and piled. The streets were ruptured veins. Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood.

The world is an ugly stew, she thought. It's so ugly I can't stand it.

Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace.

Keeping your nose clean while an entire system broke down around you guaranteed only that you would survive longer, not that you would survive.

Si lance was not quiet and calm, and it was not peace.

El silencio no era quietud o calma, y desde luego no era paz.

I'm covered in shit!

There was the chaos of goodbye.

Killing don't need no reason. This is ghetto. Reason is for rich people. We have madness.

To see a man slip on a banana skin is to see a rationally structured system suddenly translated into a whirling machine.

Richard's bookshelves weren't alphabetized. He never had time to alphabetize them. He was always too busy- looking for books he couldn't find.

Probably all writers are at some point briefly under the impression that they are in the forefront of disintegration and chaos, that they are among the first to live and work after things fall apart.

Have you noticed, now, the way people talk so loudly in snackbars and cinemas, how the shelved back gardens shudder with prodigies of talentlessness, drummers, penny-whistlers, vying transistors, the way you see and hear the curses and sign-language of high sexual drama at the bus-stops under ghosts of clouds, how life has come out of doors? And in the soaked pubs the old-timers wince and weather the canned rock. We talk louder to make ourselves heard. We will all be screamers soon.

Films are all luck and anarchy.

The world is boiling. You hardly dare open a paper these days: the news is all of cataclysm and collapse. Tempers are threadbare; the yobs are winning; everybody accepts the fact that they've got to get nastier in order to survive. The world is going bad on us. I'm having nothing to do with it.

Violence brings only temporary victories; violence, by creating more social problems than it solves, never brings permanent peace. I am convinced that if we succumb to the temptation to use violence in our struggle for freedom, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate night of bitterness, and our chief legacy to them will be a never-ending reign of chaos.