Quotes About Destruction

A demonic horde. Upended sacks of beans. A hundred broken rosaries. There are a thousand metaphors and all of them are inadequate: forty bombs per aircraft, four hundred and eighty altogether, seventy-two thousand pounds of explosives.

The premier achievement of human history, they said, the triumph of memory over the obliterating forces of destruction and erasure.

Time: the most violent war engine of all.

From somewhere comes the sound of fire: the sound of dried roses being crumbled in a fist.

An avalanche descends onto the city. A hurricane. Teacups drift off shelves. Paintings slip off nails. In another quarter second, the sirens are inaudible. Everything is inaudible. The roar becomes loud enough to separate membranes in the middle ear.

Humans are best understood as exterminators, he says. Every habitat we enter, we decimate, and now we have overrun the earth. The next thing we exterminate will be ourselves.

To the bombardiers, the walled city on its granite headland, drawing ever closer, looks like an unholy tooth, something black and dangerous, a final abscess to be lanced away.

The fires pool and strut; they flow up the sides of the ramparts like tides; they splash into alleys, over rooftops, through a carpark. Smoke chases dust; ash chases smoke. A newsstand floats, burning.

All of it burning. Every memory he ever made. Above Fort National, the dawn becomes deeply, murderously clear. The Milky Way a fading river. He looks across to the fires. He thinks: The universe is full of fuel.

All of it is burning. Every memory he ever made.

this summer scientists announced that in the last 40 yrs humans have killed 60 percent of the wild mammals and fishes and birds on earth. Is that fun? Also in the past 30 yrs, we melted 95 percent of the oldest thickest ice in the arctic.

Out in the forsaken city, every other structure, it seems, is burning or collapsing, but here in front of him is the inverse in miniature: the city remains, but the house he occupies is gone.

Doors soar away from their frames. Bricks transmute into powder. Great distending clouds of chalk and earth and granite spout into the sky. All twelve bombers have already turned and climbed and realigned above the Channel before roof slates blown into the air finish falling into the streets.

One section of the old city, tucked against the western walls, becomes a firestorm in which the spires of flames, at their highest, reach three hundred feet. The appetite for oxygen is such that objects heavier than housecats are dragged into the flames.

???? is the gods, ??????????? means they spun, ??????? is death, plague, destruction. Ruin. That's what the gods do, they spin threads of ruin through the fabric of our lives, all to make a song for generations to come.

Dar Dumnezeu e doar un ochi alb si rece, un sfert de luna atarnand deasupra fumului, clipind într-una, in timp ce oraÈ™ul e facut praf si pulbere.

Scraps of burned paper float overhead.

books, like people, die. They die in fires or floods or in the mouths of worms or at the whims of tyrants. If they are not safeguarded, they go out of the world. And when a book goes out of the world, the memory dies a second death.

The mob, infuriated by the assassination, went berserk. They burned down the Senate House

At daybreak, as he looked out over the sea, his gaze was met by ships that had been set on fire

Octavian's surviving ships were blown against the craggy coast and pounded against the rocks

who set on fire all the siege equipment and destroyed it.

You don't think he deserved it? Charles le Mesurier destroyed my son and made money out of his pain – and the pain of hundreds like him! Go on the website. Look at it.

One fucking smoke and it cost me my job, my pension, my marriage, my whole fucking life.