Quotes About Conflict

But that was another Mildred so deep inside this one, and so bothered, really bothered, that the two women had never met.

War is a bad thing, but peace can be a living horror

Everywhere you look in the literary cosmos, the great ones are busy loving and hating.

Those are not my friends, the ones who got me to tear the strips apart and so tear my own life down the middle; they are my enemies.

Let the war turn off the families. Our civilization is flinging itself to pieces. Stand back from the centrifuge.

Mildred driving a hundred miles an hour across town, he shouting at her and she shouting back and both trying to hear what was said, but hearing only the scream of the car. At least keep it down to the minimum! he yelled. What? she cried. Keep it down to fifty-five, the minimum he shouted. The what? she shrieked. Speed! he shouted. And she pushed it up to one hundred and five miles and tore the breath from his mouth.

We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought.

My cowardice is such of passion, complimenting the revolutionary spirit that lives in its shadow.

But here I was with hardly a sign of any outward conflict. It was all running around in spiked boots inside my head, making cuts and bruises where no one could see them except me and a psychologist. But it was just as bad.

We went right on insulting the dead. We went right on spitting on the graves of all the poor ones who died before us...and some day we'll remember so much that we'll build the biggest Goddamn steam-shovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove war in and cover it up

Colored people don't like the book Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator (p. 59).

No, said the old man, deep under. I don't remember anyone winning anywhere any time. War's never a winning things, Charlie. You just lose all the time, and the one who loses last asks for terms. All I remember is a lot of losing and sadness and nothing good but the end of it. The end of it, Charles, that was a winning all to itself, having nothing to do with guns. But I don't suppose that's the kind of victory you boys mean for me to talk on.

Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you've made an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.

Do you notice how people hurt each other nowadays? You sound so very old Sometimes I'm ancient. I'm afraid of children my own age. They kill each other. Did it always used to be that way?

A la gente de color no le gusta El negrito Sambo? Quémalo. ¿Los blancos se sienten incómodos con La cabaña del tío Tom? Quémalo. ¿Alguien escribió una obra acerca del tabaco y el cáncer pulmonar? ¿Los fumadores están afligidos? Quema la obra. Serenidad, Montag. Paz, Montag. Fuera los conflictos. Mejor

Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book.

and the books say nothing! Nothing you can teach or believe. They're about nonexistent people, figments of imagination, if they're fiction. And if they're nonfiction, it's worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher screaming down another's gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun. You come away lost.

Colored people don't like the book 'Little Black Sambo.' Burn it. White people don't feel good about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator (p. 59).

Don't see so much, Chris, your mind is too big for your body.' I got a war on between a mind that wants things my body can't give it.

Suddenly, he needed the gun again, to touch the shape of killing, like touching that wild old man.

I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls.

The mosquitos were gone from the porch, and surely when they abandoned the conflict the war with Time was really done, there was nothing for it but that humans also forsake the battleground.

You want to cry some more, go on ahead. I did the same last night." "You, sir?" "God's truth. Thinking of everything ahead. Both sides figuring the other side will just give up, and soon, and the war done in weeks, and us all home. Well, that's not how it's going to be. And maybe that's why I cried.

Il sentit son corps se scinder en deux, devenir chaleur et froidure, tendresse et dureté, tremblement et impassibilité, chaque moitié grinçant contre l'autre.