Quotes About Society

Miraculous though they were—perhaps the supreme triumph of the science that had produced them—they were the creations of a sick culture, a culture that had been afraid of many things.

people will panic. Riots, looting. You'll see. That's why we keep secrets, Ms. Duflot. Because people can't handle the truth.

The more wonderful the means of communication, the more trivial, tawdry, or depressing its contents seemed to be. Accidents, crimes, natural and man-made disasters, threats of conflict, gloomy editorials—these still seemed to be the main concern of the millions of words being sprayed into the ether. Yet Floyd also wondered if this was altogether a bad thing; the newspapers of Utopia, he had long ago decided, would be terribly dull. From

Her name's Aurora McAuley; among many other things, she's President of the Society for Creative Anachronisms. And if you thought Draco was impressive, wait until you see some of their other—ah—creations.

aquellos fenomenales victorianos que a veces hacen a uno preguntarse si la raza humana no se habrá deteriorado desde entonces.

the goal of the future is full unemployment, so we can play. That's why we have to destroy the present politico-economic system.

It was a non-Hermian joke that any child who showed signs of interest in art, philosophy, or abstract mathematics was plowed straight back into the hydroponic farms.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air -- or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature.

The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning, I assure you that the most winning woman i ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor.

None knew who belonged to this ruthless society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.

London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe.

who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature.

I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.

War is a convenient fix for government problems if it happens somewhere else. To other people.

If everywhere you go everyone watches you, and wants you, can you truly be yourself?

Is politics just another word for injustice?

I wasn't convinced a shop girl would know the word 'Oedipal.

Name? the desk clerk said to me politely, her pencil poised. Name, I said vaguely. I remembered, and told her. Age? she asked. Sex? Occupation? Writer, I said. Housewife, she said. Writer, I said. I'll just put down housewife, she said.

Margaret stood all alone at her first witch-burning. She had on her new blue cap and her sister's shawl, and she stood by herself, waiting. She had long ago given up on finding her sister and brother-in-law in the crowd, and was now content to watch alone. She felt a very pleasant fear and a crying excitement over the burning; she had lived all her life in the country and now, staying with her sister in the city, she was being introduced to the customs of society.

My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood.

especially the short story "The Lottery," which caused a sensation when it was published in The New Yorker in 1948 and has been widely anthologized, to the terror of countless schoolchildren since