Quotes About Rage

We know what the birth of a revolution looks like: A student stands before a tank. A fruit seller sets himself on fire. A line of monks link arms in a human chain. Crowds surge, soldiers fire, gusts of rage pull down the monuments of tyrants, and maybe, sometimes, justice rises from the flames.

Death is the ultimate enemy - and I find nothing reproachable in those who rage mightily against the dying of the light.

There's something very particular about the kind of rage you feel when you're alone in a practice room by yourself, unable to master a simple thing like a rudiment.

I think most women are sitting on all this rage we've never been allowed to express. It's an emotion that I think that people find quite unattractive in women which is why you don't see it very often.

Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

The important thing in war is that there is an element of rage, but you must remain very distant from it.

Rage wrapped itself around her like a tourniquet, keeping her alive even as it condemned a part of her to atrophy.

A man in a passion, rides a mad horse.

We have just witnessed a classic example of what I like to call 'misdirected rage.' I believe the technical term is 'being an ass.

They've had it spelled out a dozen times, in cringey classes, in cringey parent talks: when to tell an adult. The idea never comes near any of their minds. This thing opening in front of them is nothing to do with those careful speeches. This mix of roaring rage and a shame that stains every cell, this crawling understanding that now their bodies belong to other people's eyes and hands, not to them: this is something new.

Everyone is folding boxes. Andrew is folding boxes. If the entire job were to fold boxes people would scream. They would fold, and sometimes scream, existentially, then be dragged into a field and beaten into a paste. Sometimes there would be a killing rampage.

mistrust elicits rage, deprivation can foster a deep sadness.

I recently read in the book My Stroke of Insight by brain scientist Jill Bolte Taylor that the natural life span of an emotion—the average time it takes for it to move through the nervous system and body—is only a minute and a half. After that we need thoughts to keep the emotion rolling. So if we wonder why we lock into painful emotional states like anxiety, depression, or rage, we need look no further than our own endless stream of inner dialogue.

The reflex of fear was soon replaced with another, more useful emotion. Rage.

Find the joy where you can, and maintain the rage where it's needed.

Emotionally, I was affected a lot by Rage Against the Machine, not specifically the literal intention of the words or what it was about, but the feel, the sound, those phrases that got me.

There's a sort of rage a man feels when he's been deceived where he most trusted. It compares to no other anger.

Rage or fear... It oscillates. Rage I need to motivate me to try things that I can't ordinarily do - as I'm a lazy man. Fear - to keep pushing harder so we don't lose what we've accomplished.

His strength was enormous, and so was the burning need to kill this man. He'd felt this way on more than one occasion. The drive was an actual need, like breathing, consuming him, almost taking him out of his body so that the rage was a separate entity.

Good morning, my dear. I am Andre, come to take you to your new home." He glided across the room, clearly enjoying his power over them all. As he approached her, his eyes darkened with rage. "You were told to feed on the priest." "You were told to go to hell.

Rage, rage"!' shouted Bryant, picking up his walking stick and waving it like a pirate cutlass. '"Rage against the dying of the light"!' 'Has he been at the sherry?' Renfield looked nonplussed. 'No,' said May wearily, 'he's been at the Dylan Thomas. Don't worry, I'll take care of him.

Our Christian enthusiasts are evidently too stupid, as well as too insecure, to appreciate this. A revealing mark of their insecurity is their rage when public places are not annually given over to religious symbolism, and now, their fresh rage when palaces of private consumption do not follow suit.

He feels a nausea of distaste for them all; then sudden rage. Damn all food. Damn all life. He would like to abandon his shopping-cart, although it's already full of provisions.But that would make extra work for the clerks, and one of them is cute. The alternative, to put the whole lot back in the proper places himself, seems like a labour of Hercules; for the overpowering sloth of sadness is upon him. The sloth that ends in going to bed and staying there until you develop some disease.