Quotes About Rage

The trip here had been rough going—Juliet drove with a focused aggression that made most road-rage incidents seem like brief, contemplative interludes, and she punished the sleek, overpowered sports car as though it had done her some terrible harm—but it didn't seem to have dented her appetite at all.

This whole speech, extremely silly, tactless and probably politically dangerous, made Pavel Iosifovich shake with rage, but, strange as it might seem, it could be seen from the eyes of the crowd of customers that had gathered that it had aroused sympathy in very many people!

Maybe it was just another episode in the reality show that is still unfolding. Or maybe when you're roiling in childish rage, the first thing you lose is judgment, and then comes common sense. And finally you lose your mind and along with that, your freedom.

The Left had become a rage machine, burning itself up: a melting blue bubble dissolving in on itself.

Or maybe when you're roiling in childish rage, the first thing you lose is judgment, and then comes common sense. And finally you lose your mind and along with that, your freedom.

This was why it seemed to many of us in that summer that the Left was morphing into something it never had been in my lifetime: a morally superior, intolerant and authoritarian party that was out of touch and lacked any coherent ideology beyond its blanket refusal to credit an election in which someone they didn't approve of had, at least legally, technically, won the White House. The Left had become a rage machine, burning itself up: a melting blue bubble dissolving in on itself.

She screamed now. She raved. She raged through the tomb, strewing bones in her wake, tearing limbs and heads from desiccated bodies. She hated the dead. She hated the living even more, those who had abandoned her and still breathed the open air.

You don't have to be insane to cut people up, no matter how fiendishly you do it. You just have to hate enough.

All these represent humanity in general, totally enraged, demented, vengeful, spiteful, cheap denizens of our culture, vultures, jackals, sharks, suckerfish, stingrays, lice.

Though she was ungifted, she could clearly feel the power of the magic the sword now possessed. It was power unlike anything she ever imagined. It churned the way the storm had. It held more power than the storm had. It was fury and rage and love and life all folded together over and over, blending them into the finest layers of something new, something remarkable. This was now a weapon unlike any other, more than any other.

I could have hated Richard for his father's crimes, but chose instead to love him for himself. He turned out to be quite a man, don't you think? You have been defeated by the heir you wanted. An heir born with the gift. That is rare. Richard is the true Seeker. From the Rahl blood, he has the rage of the anger, the capacity for violence. But it's balanced with Zorander blood, the capacity for love, understanding, and forgiveness.

Rage is the only armor you have against the pain; it gives a measure of protection. The stronger the enemy, the stronger the pain. But the stronger the rage, the stronger the shield. It makes you care less about the truth of what you have done. In some cases enough to not feel the pain.

My experience in Amsterdam is that cyclists ride where the hell they like and aim in a state of rage at all pedestrians while ringing their bell loudly, the concept of avoiding people being foreign to them. My dream holiday would be a) a ticket to Amsterdam b) immunity from prosecution and c) a baseball bat.

Vimes felt his hand begin to move of its own accord-- And stopped. Red rage froze. There was The Beast, all around him. And that's all it was. A beast. Useful, but still a beast. You could hold it on a chain, and make it dance, and juggle balls. It didn't think. It was dumb. What you were, what you were, was not The Beast.

Ankh-Morpork is a godless city--' 'I thought it had more than three hundred places of worship?' said Maladict. Strappi stared at him in rage that was incoherent until he managed to touch bottom again. 'Ankh-Morpork is a godawful city', he recovered.

OPEN HOUSE My secrets cry aloud. I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps open house, My doors are widely swung. An epic of the eyes My love, with no disguise. My truths are all foreknown, This anguish self-revealed. I'm naked to the bone, With nakedness my shield. Myself is what I wear: I keep the spirit spare. The anger will endure, The deed will speak the truth In language strict and pure. I stop the lying mouth: Rage warps my clearest cry To witless agony.

I could see the rage of insatiable uninvited lust in every line of that dark, stoic face that had once been too subtly etched for me to read.I wasn't the only one lying awake at night, fevered with memories, tossing, turning, soaking my sheets, burning up--not for Fae sex, but him, damn it all to hell, him.

I've always known what you need. Someone to rage at who's strong enough to take all the pain and fury you have to dish out until you've burned it out of your system and nothing is left but a pile of ashes from which the Phoenix rises. Kid, woman, whatever the hell you are—I want to see you rise. Even if you have to hate me.

I will choose anything over fear. Rage is fuel. Rage is gasoline. And Ryodan wasn't completely right—because rage, wielded as a weapon, with focus, purpose, and skill, is also massively useful energy. Anger can refine, distill, clarify.

Rage bubbles up inside me, cold, clear, and as psychotic as the carnage unfolding before my eyes.

I came to hate the complainers, with their dry and crumbly lipsticks and their wrinkled rage and their stupid, flaccid, old-people sun hats with brims the breadth of Saturn's rings.

His rage swelled, sweet and simple.

That was before the new puritans took over the city. Before political correctness became the rage and melted all of us into a single amorphous dung heap.

yelled,kicking