Quotes About Hatred

Look at yourself. Hatred and anger, kindness and bravery. They are all yours, and rightly so. Accept this, face it straight on, then ask yourself what it means to change your destiny.

Sometime when people see a beautiful thing they want to destroy it. The thing make them feel ugly so they act ugly.

If someone has hurt you, lied about and vilified you, and has said all manner of evil about you, is your thought of that person negative? If so, you have not yet forgiven. The roots of hatred are still in your subconscious mind, playing havoc with you and your good. The only way to wither those roots is with love. Wish for the person all the blessings of life. This is the meaning of Forgive until seventy times seven.

Those who abuse political power create a debt of hatred that almost certainly brings them to a bad end.

I had hated him, but I wouldn't have reproached him, any more than I would have reproached a bolt of lightning for striking my house. He wasn't a person . . .

I hated her; I wanted her to burn, the way so many of the corrupted had burned, because she'd put her hold on them. But wanting cruelty felt like another wrong answer in an endless chain.

She'd remembered the wrong things, and forgotten too much. She'd remembered how to kill and how to hate, and she'd forgotten how to grow.

I had hated him, but I wouldn't have reproached him, any more than I would have reproached a bolt of lightning for striking my house. He wasn't a person, he was a lord and a wizard, a strange creature on another plane entirely, as far removed as storms and pestilence.

Shrivel up and die, you putrescent sack of larva!

I hated him and his silence ferociously: I knew he was only letting me convince myself there was nothing to be done.

Recordaba lo que no debía, y había olvidado demasiado. Recordaba cómo matar y cómo odiar, y se le había olvidado cómo crecer.

If we sow the seeds of hatred and envy and discouragement in others, we, in turn, develop these qualities in ourselves.

But I couldn't absorb the idea that death could actually walk by my side, with a human face and a heart that was poisoned with hatred, that death could be dressed in a uniform or a raincoat, queue up at a cinema, laugh in bars, or take his children out for a walk to Ciudadela Park in the morning, and then, in the afternoon, make someone disappear in the dungeons of Monjuïc Castle or in a common grave with no name or ceremony.

It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

Well, this is a story about books. About books? About accursed books, about a man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of anovel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind. You talk like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel. That's probably because I work in a bookshop and I've seen too many. But this is a true story.

The air seemed poisoned with fear and hatred. People eyed on another suspiciously, and the streets smelled of a silence that knotted your stomach.

I couldn't absorb the idea that death could actually walk by my side, with a human face and a heart that was poisoned with hatred, that death could be dressed in a uniform or a raincoat, queue up at a cinema, laugh in bars, or take his children out for a walk

Some years had passed, but one never forgets faces one wholeheartedly detests.

well, this is a story about books.' 'About books?' 'About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

Yes, I'm writing and anger and resentment, and I'm ashamed of it, because I no longer know, nor do I care, whether my words are fair or not, whether I'm judging the innocent or whether the fury and the pain that burn me to the core or also blinding me. During these past months I've learned to hate, and it terrifies me to think that I'll die with this bitterness in my heart.

Il vero odio è un sentimento che si impara col tempo.

But I couldn't absorb the idea that death could actually walk by my side, with a human face and a heart that was poisoned with hatred.

He'd come to the conclusion that you never really know who you are until you learn to hate. And when you really hate, when you abandon yourself to that anger that burns you inside, that slowly consumes what little good you thought you had in your baggage, you do it secretly.

This is a story about books. ... About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a sory of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.