Quotes About People

Good people didn't hate without a reason, so they grasped at any pretext, no matter how small, that gave them permission to hate. A line in a holy book. The color of a person's skin. The brand of their magic. They were not in the habit of taking a second look or giving chances. Their fear was too great and their need to defend themselves too dire. They always lost at the end. Life was change. It would come to them, as inevitable as the sunrise, despite all their flailing

When people had trouble of a magic kind, the kind that cops couldn't or wouldn't handle, they called the Mercenary Guild. If the job happened to fall into my territory, the Guild then called me.

I had learned that life was a vicious bitch and people were complicated. They lied to themselves.

The touchstone of everything that can be concluded as a law for a people lies in the question whether the people could have imposed such a law on itself.

Do not forget that every people deserves the government it is willing to endure!

Hun likte å le, og hun syntes synd på folk - Dickens-siden ved deg, vesle mor, pleide han å si.

La sua vita trascorreva in una continua alternanza tra il desiderio di solitudine e quello di compagnia. «Nessuno come me avrà sprecato tante energie nella conversazione più futile, e nessuno avrà tanto detestato la gente»

War Ã¢â'¬Â¦ yes, everyone knows what war is like. But occupation is more terrible in a way, because people get used to one another. We tell ourselves, 'They're just like us, after all,' but they're not at all the same. We're two different species, irreconcilable, enemies forever.

What's the difference! It's only stone, wood—nothing living! What matters is survival!" Who cared about the tragedy of their country? Not these people, not the people who were leaving that night. Panic obliterated everything that wasn't animal instinct, involuntary physical reaction. Grab the most valuable things you own in the world and then Ã¢â'¬Â¦!

There are laws that regulate the fate of beehives and of people, and that's all there is to it. The spirit of the people is undoubtedly also ruled by laws that elude us, or by whims we know nothing about. How sad the world is, so beautiful yet so absurd.

Dying is the most universal and arguably most difficult of life events. Pretty much by definition, dying people are as sick as they have ever been.

Time can divorce us from the reality of people, it can separate us from people and turn them into ghosts. Or rather it is we who turn them into ghosts or demons. Some kinds of fruitless preoccupations with the past can create such simulacra, and they can exercise power, like those heroes at Troy fighting for a phantom Helen.

Some people are just 'diminishers' and 'spoilers' for others. I suppose almost everybody diminishes someone. A saint would be nobody's spoiler.

Goodness appears to be both rare and hard to picture. It is perhaps most convincingly met with in simple people - inarticulate, unselfish mothers of large families - but these cases are also the least illuminating.

Literature must always represent a battle between real people and images'.

Prose literature can reveal an aspect of the world which no other art can reveal … and in the case of the novel, the most important thing to be thus revealed, not necessarily the only thing, but incomparably the most important thing, is that other people exist.

How rarely can happiness be really innocent and not triumphant, not an insult to the deprived. How offensive it can be, the natural instinctive showing off of decent happy people.

Time, like the sea, unties all knots. Judgments on people are never final, they emerge from summings up which at once suggest the need of a reconsideration. Human arrangements are nothing but loose ends and hazy reckoning

It was odd, the life one lived in other people's dreams.

Curiously watched by people in neighbouring cars, she abandoned herself to sobbing as the taxi crawled slowly through the north London traffic.

She did not understand music and it upset her, it had only sad, tragic things to say. These leaping forms, these pursuits and insistences, these elusive desperate repetitions, always seemed to her like one long cry of agony. She could not, in this company, allow herself the luxury of self-pitying tears, which was her highest tribute to the art. She looked about her and let the music gather to her the people with whom she was so deeply concerned.

There are people who occasion in one, as it seems automatically, obsessive egoistic anxiety and preoccupying resentment. When confronted with such people one should if possible run: or else deaden the mind to them. (Or behave in some 'saintly' manner not here relevant.)

It's mibbe nae mair vermin thin you or me, likesay... whae's tae say what's vermin...they posh wifire think people us ur vermin, likesay, does that make it right thit they should kill us, ah goes.

Every support had its arseholes.