Quotes About Rage

Parallels between the veteran's words and Achilles' are inescapable. During berserk rage, the friend is constantly alive; letting go of the rage lets him die.

Whether the berserker is beneath humanity as an animal, above it as a god, or both, he is cut off from all human community when he is in this state. No living human has any claim on him, not even the claim of being noticed and remembered.

The berserker's manic obsession with revenge is not only destruction to gratify rage. At some deep cultural and psychological level, spilling enemy blood is an effort to bring the dead back to life. One veteran recalls the following interior chant to his dead friend at every kill: Every fucking one that died, I say, "____, here's one for you, baby. I'll take this motherfucker out and I'm going to cut his fucking heart out for you.

Not die here in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole.

As fear approaches in the night, Flee from the field and hide from sight. The power stirs, the anger wakes, The rage upon the darkness breaks, A fearful lesson, learned full well, A tale that they alone can tell.

Barbarians!' he roared. 'Filthy barbarians!

Mes yeux vers les vagues au bord de la plage, Pleine des forces, s'emparent du rivage J'aperçois mon jeune âge, Si éphémère et plein des rages.

If nothing matters, why rage?

Sometimes, this rage builds up inside me and I...I feel like it's eating me alive. Like soon there'll be nothing left of me but hatred and despair...It's more alive than I am.

Fireheart dashed to the warrior's side. Cloudtail was standing stiff-legged, every hair in his pelt on end as if he were facing an enemy. His eyes were fixed on the limp heap of tabby fur huddled at his paws. "Why, Fireheart?" Cloudtail wailed. "Why her?" Fireheart knew, but rage and grief made it hard to speak. "Because Tigerstar wants the pack to get a taste of cat blood," he rasped. The dead cat lying in front of them was Brindleface.

Tigerstar bristled. "Fireheart." He curled his lip. "Don't you mean Rusty? That was his kittypet name." There was rage in his mew. "He's the reason I left ThunderClan. I'm a warrior. How could I stay in a Clan that respects a kittypet?

I will not be tortured, I tear torture out of myself by torturing you!

Either you understood impulsive rage, and the memory failures that sometimes go with it, or you didn't. That was it.

I heard a woman scream with rage and frustration and then grunt like a tennis player.

Fear is the mother of all emotion. Before love, hate, spite, grief, rage, and all the rest, there was fear, and fear gave birth to them all, and ask every combat soldier knows there are as many incarnations and species of fear as the Eskimo language has words for snow.

Poetry" is a word for a kind of value no particular poem can realize: the value of persons, the value of human activity beyond the labor/leisure divide, a value before or beyond price. Thus hating poetry can either be a way of negatively expressing poetry as an ideal [or] it can be a defensive rage against the mere suggestion that another world, another measure of value, is possible.

I figured out that letting 'the world' hurt me served a few functions extremely well: It provided me with a kind of nurturing I didn't otherwise know how to attract, I couldn't be pinned with total responsibility, and it provided physical pain, a reason to cry that others could understand. So much easier than trying to explain all the accumulated rage and numbness and sadness.

Thus, Michelangelo filled the chapel with hidden messages of his passionate loves and his righteous rages, along with mystic symbols of divine justice and divine mercy. For him, the Sistine was indeed the Sanctuary, the neck of the world, but more than that, it was "The Bridge"—the bridge meant to unite people with God, with their fellow humans, and, perhaps most difficult of all, with their own spiritual selves.

There's a lot of rage in my head. I like the friction that means there is nothing relaxing about writing a poem. I can't afford to relax in any area of life. You have to keep your senses awake to all the complacency that kicks in - particularly for the English.

My dad was a man of infinite varieties of bitterness, rage, distaste. In my lifelong struggle to avoid becoming him, I'd developed an inability to demonstrate much negative emotion at all.

I feel my father's rage rise up in me in the ugliest way.

In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you'd never guess from looking at me.

If the Domain is destroyed, I have condemned my husband to an eternity of darkness, silence, with only his own rage and madness to keep him company.

I felt a darkness growing within me that was too numb for sorrow and too cold for rage.