Quotes About Anger

A certain amount of anger doesn't make us less empathetic, less humane, less loving. It just makes us real.

The brutalization of humans by other humans never fails to get to me in some angry-making way. It shot up in me like an explosion.

The humble and meek are thirsting for blood.

I seethe at the humiliation of airport security checks.

On 'EastEnders' everyone's bitter, angry. Where are the wonderful characters that I lived with, who could find humour even in the lowest form of living?

We must recognize that anger only agitates and incites. It cannot squelch or satisfy the hunger for justice.

A hungry man is an angry one.

I get really angry when I get hungry. If you don't feed me, I won't talk to you. That's when my anger issues come out.

I felt hollowed out. My mom's death was not useful. I felt a shot of rage at her, and then imagined those last bloody moments in the house, when she realized it had gone wrong, when Debby lay dying, and it was all over, her unsterling life. My anger gave way to a strange tenderness, what a mother might feel for her child, and I thought, At least she tried. She tried, on that final day, as hard as anyone could have tried. And I would try to find peace in that.

She talked to me because we had the same chemicals in our blood: shame, anger, greed. Unjustified nostalgia.

The good stuff in me I got from my mom. I can joke, I can laugh, I can tease, I can celebrate and support and praise – I can operate in sunlight, basically – but I can't deal with angry or tearful women.

The phrase fuck you may not rest on the tip of my tongue, but it's near. Midtongue.

Worse, I convinced myself our tragedy was entirely her making. I spent years working myself into the very thing I swore she was: a righteous ball of hate.

I take a giant breath, roll my anger up into a red rubber ball, and mentally kick it out into space.

I was not that man: I didn't hate and fear all women. I was a one-woman misogynist. If I despised only Amy, focused all my fury and rage and venom on the one woman who deserved it, that didn't make me my father. That made me sane.

I won't blame Nick. I don't blame Nick. I refuse - refuse! - to turn into some pert-mouthed, strident angry-girl. I made two promises to myself when I married Nick. One: no dancing-monkey demands. Two: I would never, ever say, Sure, that's fine by me (if you want to stay out later, if you want to do a boys' weekend, if you want to do something you want to do) and then punish him for doing what I said was fine by me. I worry I am coming perilously close to violating both of those promises.

I suppose it's not a compromise if only one of you considers it such, but that was what our compromises tended to look like. One of us was always angry.

I remember at one point starting a goofy story about a childhood field trip here, and I saw her eyes go blank, and I got secretly furious, spent ten minutes just winding myself up – because at this point of our marriage, I was so used to being angry with her, it felt almost enjoyable, like gnawing on a cuticle: You know you should stop, that it doesn't really feel as good as you think, but you can't quit grinding away.

It never takes much for me to lose patience. The phrase 'fuck you' may not rest on the tip of my tongue, but it's near. Midtongue.

He killed my soul, which should be a crime. Actually, it is a crime. According to me, at least.

That's what I did, though—I had angry, defensive conversations in my head, got mad at things that hadn't even happened yet. Yet.

January was the season for house robberies and violence. Christmas was over, and the new year just reminded you of how little your life had changed, and man, people got angry in January.

sat in groups together purging ourselves, theoretically, of anger and self-hatred. We learned not to turn on ourselves. We learned to blame.

Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I chanted