Quotes About Confrontation

People rid the room of argument until they have no one left — except people who agree with them. It is understandable. But I like a good argument.

Answer a fool according to his folly, or he will be wise in his own eyes.

At the best, sarcasms, bitter irony, scathing wit, are a sort of sword-play of the mind. You pink your adversary and he is forthwith dead: and then you deserve to be hung for it.

Adam kept his body close. He wrapped the gunman up in a bear hug, his momentum still pushing him forward. They fell hard on the concrete, forcing Adam to let go. The gunman took advantage of the moment. He connected with an elbow to Adam's head. The stars came back. So did the nearly paralyzing pain. Nearly paralyzing. The

As though on cue, two guys came around the bush. One was the man in camouflage pants Myron had noticed earlier. The other guy was a big brawler type with a tourniquet-tight black T-shirt, a Cro-Magnon forehead, and arms as big as ham hocks. The brawler was chewing tobacco like a cow with a cud and playing to type; he was actually cracking his knuckles. "You're

Oh, please." Hickory looked skeptical. "Your show is pure sensationalism. Tripe tabloid at its worst—" Wendy interrupted him. "We've met before, Mr. Hickory." That slowed him down. "Have we?" "When I was an assistant producer on A Current Affair. I booked you as an expert on the Robert Blake murder trial." He

Ronald Tilfer—at least, she assumed the man in the brown UPS uniform was him—smiled and waved behind him as he exited from the restaurant. He was short with tightly cropped salt 'n' pepper hair and, as you noticed in these uniforms with shorts, nice legs. Wendy pushed herself off her car and cut him off before he reached the vehicle. "Ronald

Neither man argued. Greg stared out the window at the house, probably conjuring up unspeakable horrors. Myron's left leg started jackhammering. It often did when he was tense. Stan reached for the door handle. That

Im selben Moment Otto mir seine Faust in den Bauch. Luft strömte aus meiner Lunge. Ich klappte in der Hüfte wie ein Koffer zusammen.

Myron heard footsteps coming up from behind him. He closed his eyes. It was as he expected. The footsteps came closer. When they stopped, Myron did not turn around. "You killed her," Myron said. "Yes." A block of ice melted in Myron's stomach. "Do you feel better now?" The killer's tone caressed the back of Myron's neck with a cold, bloodless hand. "The question is, Myron, do you?

You think dragging the ugly out in the sunlight will destroy it. It doesn't. Just the opposite. You give the ugly thing life nourishment.

The word came out slurred. He could hear it. It was hostile too. The vodka was making him angry or, more likely, letting him be. He was actually hoping for trouble now, even while he feared it. The anger was making him focus. Or at least that was what he wanted to believe. His thinking was no longer muddled. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to hit someone. He wanted a physical confrontation. It didn't matter if he crushed someone or someone crushed him. He

The front door was open. Mrs. Seiden was standing there. And next to her, with his fingers digging into her upper arm, was the other man who'd chased him from the car. This guy was a few years older than Art Teacher and wore an ascot. An ascot, for crying out loud. He looked like Roger Healey from the old I Dream of Jeannie show. No

You want to spend the night in jail?" "For what, asswipe? You going to arrest me on some trumped-up charge? Go ahead. I work for a law firm. I'll sue your ass back to the high school equivalency exam you probably never passed." More

I'm afraid so,' he said. 'Ugh. Go on.' 'This whole thing is sort of like a boxing match,' Myron began. 'We've been ducking and diving and weaving and trying to keep away from our opponent. But we can only do that for so long. Eventually we have to throw a punch.' She made a face. 'Christ, that was lame.

I'm going to serve up his balls for breakfast. Your job, to keep within this metaphor, is to do the grocery shopping. Can you handle that?" That

Hoping to discourage him, Kat gave the guy flat eyes and a disdainful frown. Sunglasses was not deterred. He bebopped over, moving to some sound track that was playing only in his own head. "Hey

She wanted to cry again. She wanted to do nothing and forget those two calm strangers had ever said anything to her. But she had no choice now, did she? The secret had been thrust in her face. She couldn't put that horse back in the barn, to mix her metaphors. It was a parental paradox probably as old as time: She didn't want to know, but she did want to know. When

They stood there, the two of them—the mother of a dead boy holding firm to the boy who had killed him.

Are you Fester?" The man had forearms like marble columns at the Acropolis. The beer mug looked like a shot glass in his enormous hand. "Who wants to know?" "Who do you think? Me.

Granite Man gave Myron more hard eyes, though his were more relaxed, as though Myron amused him in the way a little kitty nipping at his pant leg might. He didn't stand, choosing instead to stare at Myron and crack his knuckles one at a time. Myron

She turned and stared at the young D.A. as though he were a bleeding boar and she was a panther with an industrial-sized case of piles.

He was furious. He wouldn't let me bury them. It didn't matter. There was no way to dig up the deckplates. He dried up the snow. He brought the night. He roared and sent locusts. It didn't do a thing; they stayed dead. I'd had him.

I think that the self, in its quest to be free and solitary, ultimately reads with one aim only: to confront greatness. That confrontation scarcely masks the desire to join greatness, which is the basis of the aesthetic experience once called the Sublime: the quest for a transcendence of limits.