Quotes About Anger

You... are not a very nice old man!!!

My temper began to rise -- always a bad sign. I would probably end up doing something stupid.

Ninety-seven minutes ago," replied Copperfield. "Killed two male nurses and his doctor with his bare hands. The other three orderlies who accompanied him are critical in the hospital." "Critical?" "Yes. Don't like the food, beds uncomfortable, waiting lists too long—usual crap. Other than that they're fine.

You don't even have to move for everything to become horribly complicated, for things to happen, for there to be anger and iitigation, you only have to breathe in this world, the slightest in-breath or out-breath like the minimum swaying inevitable in all light objects hanging by a thread, our veiled and neutral gaze like the inert oscillation of toy airplanes suspended from a ceiling, and that always end up going into battle because of that minimal tremor or pulsation.

She wanted to scream her rage to the uncaring universe, but she couldn't breathe.

May the devil himself splatter you with dung.

Serenio had been right, his love was too much for most people to bear. His anger, let loose, could not be contained until it had run its course either. Growing up, he had once wreaked such havoc with righteous anger that he had caused someone serious injury. All his emotions were too powerful. Even his mother had felt forced to put a distance between them, and she had watched with silent sympathy when friends backed off because he clung too fiercely, loved too hard, demanded too much of them.

So much violence. If God existed, I'd have strangled him on the spot. Without batting an eyelid. And with all the fury of the damned.

I need to feel strongly, to love and to admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe. A letter from a friend, a Balthus painting on a postcard, a page of Saint-Simon, give meaning to the passing hours. But to keep my mind sharp, to avoid descending into resigned indifference, I maintain a level of resentment and anger, neither too much nor too little, just as a pressure cooker has a safety valve to keep it from exploding.

I was angry. Whoever it is you fall in love with for the first time, not just love but be in love with, is the one who will always make you angry, the one you can't be logical about.

Even now when I'm furious, what I would like to do is to punch the infuriating person flat on the ground. That solves nothing I know, and I spent a lot of time understanding my own violence, which is not of the pussycat kind. There are people who could never commit murder; I am not one of those people. It's better to know it, better to know who you are, and what lies in you, and what you could do, might do, under extreme provocation.

I could see in her a piece of the bright hope I once had in myself and it made me sour and angry. It made me feel sorry for her too. I wanted to take both her hands in mine, look her in the eye, and let her see that the world isn't interested in a little black girl's dreams.

Sería preciso que mi ser moral fuera aniquilada para que la justicia se me volviera indiferente. El espectáculo de la injusticia y de la maldad hace aún que me hierva la sangre de cólera; los actos de virtud en que no veo ni fanfarronería ni ostentación me hacen siempre vibrar de alegría y todavía me arrancan dulces lágrimas.

Jamás he conocido las pasiones más odiosas, nunca ha invadido mi corazón la envidia, la maldad, ni la venganza... en ocasiones la ira, pero no soy muy hábil y jamás guardo rencor.

Maybe. The trouble with anger is, it gets hold of you. And then you aren't the master of yourself any-more. Anger is.

The trouble with anger is, it gets hold of you. And then you aren't the master of yourself any-more.

When anger is in control, you get unintended consequences.

Resentment increased on both sides, until any little accident could flare up into a fight.

Doon went up close to the wall of the hotel and examined the words scratched there. He pictured the people who had done it, clutching their burnt chunks of wood, writing with big, angry strokes in the dark of the night. Yes, Tick was right. Hatred seethed in those jagged letters. He felt almost as if their strokes had scraped open his skin.

Father: And when anger is the boss, you get- Doon: Unintended consequences.

The thought made him suddenly furious. He sat up, grabbed a shoe heel out of the bucket at his feet, and hurled it with all his might. It arrived at the front door just as the door opened. Doon heard a hard thwack and a loud "Ouch!" at the same moment. Then he saw the long, lean, tired-looking face of his father in the doorway.

I just stood there looking from one distorted face to another, listening to this babble of enraged squabbling as the members of the Walls family gave vent to all their years of hurt and anger, each unloading his or her own accumulated grievances and blaming the others for allowing the most fragile one of us to break into pieces.

But no: he was empty, he was confronted by a vast anger, a desperate anger, he saw it and could almost have touched it. But it was inert - if it were to live and find expression and suffer, he must lend it his own body. It was other people's anger. Swine! He clenched his fists, he strode along, but nothing came, the anger remained external to himself.

I think the American public has gone from really almost white-hot anger in 2010 to an anxiety knowing their government needs to work.