Quotes About Abuse

Since Christians were not allowed to lend money at interest, some other group of merchants had to be created. The Jews became moneylenders by default, as it were, and as a result they were abused and despised in equal measure.

The rector of Manchester invited a local couple, with their daughter, to dinner. The rector's servants seized the daughter, broke two of her ribs, and then deposited her in the rector's bed; he had sex with her that night, but the unfortunate girl died from her injuries a month later.

Measuring requires, first and foremost, analytical ability. But it also demands that measurement be used to make self-control possible, rather than abused to control people from the outside and above—that is, to dominate them.

Legal, regulated voluntary euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide have far less potential for abuse, and when they are available, there is no need to make it easy for people to find out how to kill themselves.

What do you do with the kid who can't read? ...Well, what he did with the kid who couldn't read was to make her his mistress. What Farley did was to make her his punching bag. What the Cuban did was to make her his whore, or one among them--so Coleman believed more often than not.

Mamma, don't you see -- you shouldn't hit me. He shouldn't hit me. You shouldn't hit me about God, Mamma. You should never hit anybody about God . . . .

I know what a plantation is, Mr. Legree—I mean, Mr. Levov. I know what it means to run a plantation. You take good care of your niggers. Of course you do. It's called paternal capitalism. You own 'em, you sleep with 'em, and when you're finished with 'em you toss 'em out. Lynch 'em only when necessary.

These are only the most prominent examples. Facebook's history of personal data abuse is extensive, and consistent. Given the chance, you can be sure Facebook will abuse users' data — no matter what permissions the users think they gave, and no matter the promises Facebook may have made to regulators.

So I get to be the bitch now? Fine. Then you, my friend, are the scary girl. 'He doesn't hit me. He doesn't abuse me. He doesn't cheat on me.' Can you hear yourself? If those are the standards you have--hey, he hasn't punched me, so everything must be okay!--that scares me. That makes me think that at some point you've used these justifications. 'Oh, it's really bad right now, and he's being awful...but at least he's not hitting me. Have a little more respect for yourself than that, okay?

Jerk, v. "This has to stop," I say. "You have to stop hurting me. I can`t take it. I really can`t take it." "I know you can`t take it," you say. "But is that really my fault?" I try to convince myself that it`s the alcohol talking. But alcohol can`t talk. It just sits there. It can`t even get itself out of the bottle. "It is your fault," I tell you. But you have already left the room.

I love the idea that an abuse can be negated. And that the things most often disabused are notions.

When courts usurp the legislative function and make laws rather than interpret them, when Congress delegates its legislative functions to an unaccountable administrative state, and when presidents issue lawless executive orders, they are abusing their respective constitutional authority.

There are unmistakable parallels between the treatment of slaves and the treatment of domestic animals. Brown University historian Karl Jacoby points out that that virtually all of the practices deployed for controlling livestock—practices such as "whipping, chaining, branding, castration, cropping ears"—have also been used to control slaves.

Como en el resto de las tendencias destructivas, el hecho de que el empleo del maltrato tenga una lógicas adaptativa subyacente no significa que debamos aceptarlo, desearlo o descuidar su erradicación. Por el contrario, una mayor comprensión de la lógica que subyace a tales tácticas y de los contextos en que se producen puede llevar a métodos más eficaces para reducirlas o eliminarlas.

It might seem that women rarely inflict violent aggression against men. In reports of spousal abuse, such as slapping, spitting, hitting, and calling nasty names, however, the percentages of male and female victims often are roughly the same (e.g., Buss, 1989b; Dobash, Dobash, Wilson, & Daly, 1992).

The basic truth is that men who lack status become losers in the game of mating. Other men abuse them with impunity, take their metaphorical lunch money, and poach their partners.

Now it seems cruel, abusive even, but this all happened before the invention of self-esteem, which, frankly, I think is a little overrated.

A child, a fifth-grader, has been used and discarded, a monstrous sacrifice to an unmistakable evil.

Too many dogs continue to be abused and abandond - one is too many - and people continue to kill people for money and envy and no reason at all. Bad people succeed and good people fail, but that's not the end of the story. Miracles happen that nobody sees, and among us walk heroes who are never recognised, and people live in loneliness because they cannot believe they are loved

In real life during the last decade of the twentieth century, Rumpelstiltskin would probably get the queen's daughter. He would no doubt addict her to heroin, turn her out as a prostitute, confiscate her earnings, beat her for pleasure, hack her to pieces, and escape justice by claiming that society's intolerance for bad-tempered, evil-minded trolls had driven him temporarily insane.

War transforms its participants. What was once necessary appears inessential; what was taken for granted, unappreciated and abused now reveals itself to be central to our existence. Strange inversions proliferate.

oh, he loves her; just as the English loved India and Africa and Ireland; it is the love that is the problem, people treat their lovers badly)

It was like tag, but a girl was never "It," only boys were "It," girls simply ran and ran until we found ourselves cornered in some quiet spot, away from the eyes of dinner ladies and playground monitors, at which point our knickers were pulled aside and a little hand shot into our vaginas, we were roughly, frantically tickled, and then the boy ran away, and the whole thing started up again from the top.

They plan and they fix and they do, and then some kitchen-dwelling fiend slips a scorchy, soggy, tasteless mess into their pots and pans…So when the bread didn't rise, and the fish wasn't quite done at the bone, and the rice was scorched, he slapped Janie until she had a ringing sound in her ears and told her about her brains before he stalked on back to the store.