Quotes About Anger

There was a beautiful thoroughness about his wakened anger--it never made inquiries till later.

And so incessant, it seemed to him later, had been this tyranny of strength, that in his young wild twenties when his great boneframe was powerfully fleshed at last, and he heard about him the loud voices, the violent assertion, the empty threat, memory would waken in him a maniacal anger, and he would hurl the insolent intruding swaggerer from his path, thrust back the hostler, glare insanely into fearful surprised faces and curse them.

quickly the fear was replaced with rage.

The fog made things seem hollow and unattached. He tried not to think about Ted Lavender, but then he was thinking how fast it was, no dram, down and dead, and how it was hard to feel anything except surprise. It seemed unchristian. He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive.

You can hide in someone else's rage - it blinds them

He held his ground like a sweet gum stump trying hard to live in a spirit of love and action, not anger and reaction

No, truth never gained anyone anything. All it did was anger those who preferred lies and confusion and backspinning in the hope of making themselves look better.

Because of your heart, you hate. Because of your heart, you have a dark side. Because of your heart, steal. Because of your heart, you get angry. Because of your heart, you scorn others. Because of your heart, you feel rage. Because of your heart, I want you all to myself.

You're young, therefore you're easy to anger. You're angry, therefore your heart is shaken. Your heart is shaken, therefore your blade is dull." - Grand Fisher

Che razza di mostro si è infilato in casa mia? Che tutti gli dèi e le dee mi faccian morire di mala morte se io non la faccio crepare di fame e di sete e di freddo

He did not remember when he began to regard the heap of books on his desk with boredom and dread, or when he grew angry at writers for writing them. He did not remember when everything began to remind him of something else.

i am the most even-tempered man i know,' clark protested. 'right, no one's ever lived long enough for you to get really mad. they're dead by the time you're mildly annoyed.

It's hard to drift off into nowhereland when your arousal hormones are circulating wildly as a result of your rage at mobile-phone users. Fantasies of hurling their mobile phones from the train window tend to disturb the search for inner calm.

Actually, he hadn't just complained; she'd come home from school one afternoon and found him stabbing his paperback edition with a steak knife, the tip of the blade penetrating the cover and sinking far enough down into the early chapters that he sometimes had trouble pulling it out. When she asked him what he was doing, he explained in a calm and serious voice that he was trying to kill the book before it killed him.

found him stabbing his paperback edition with a steak knife, the tip of the blade penetrating the cover and sinking far enough down into the early chapters

I'm going to heaven! I replied. -What do you mean, you're going to heaven? -Let me pass. -And what will you do in heaven, my poor child? -I'm going there to kill God, who killed Daddy.

White folks have controlled New Orleans with money and guns, black folks have controlled it with magic and music, and although there has been a steady undercurrent of mutual admiration, an intermingling of cultures unheard of in any other American city, South or North; although there has prevailed a most joyous and fascinating interface, black anger and white fear has persisted, providing the ongoing, ostensibly integrated fete champetre with volatile and sometimes violent idiosyncrasies.

R]ed hair is slow to lay back once it's got its dandruff up, and her bitchy mood required further opportunity to express itself.

Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality and presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging.

They seemed to have taken all of their smoothly cultivated ignorance, their exquisitely learned self-hatred, their elaborately designed hopelessness and sucked it all up into a fiery cone of scorn that had burned for ages in the hollows of their minds? cooled ?and spilled over lips of outrage, consuming whatever was in its path.

I get angry about things, then go on and work.

Hate does that. Burns off everything but itself, so whatever your grievance is, your face looks just like your enemy's.

You have pissed your last in this house . . . and I don't make velvet roses anymore.

124 was spiteful.