Quotes About Violence

Evil turned out not to be a grand thing. Not sneering Emperors with their world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence, and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods.

The only difference between war and murder is the number of dead.

You may need two hands to fight someone, but only one to stab them in the back. (Yarvi)

Kill me?' The Bloody-Nine laughed louder than ever. 'I do the killing, fool!

There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Bloody-Nine they call me, my enemies, and there's a lot of 'em. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. I've earned it. I've deserved it. I've sought it out. Such is my punishment.

I never saw men act with such ignorance, violence and self-serving malice as when energised by a just cause.

The man screamed, and screamed behind his mask, and the Bloody-Nine laughed, and twisted the blade. Logen might have pitied him, but Logen was far away and the Bloody-Nine had no more pity in him than the winter. Less even. He stabbed, and cut, and cut, and smiled, and the screams bubbled and died, and he let the corpse drop to the cold stones. His fingers were slick with blood and he wiped it on his clothes, on his arms, on his face—just as it should be.

That got him thinking about his life. It seemed a bitter, pointless sort of life now. No one was any better off because of it. Full of violence and pain, with not much but disappointment and hardship in between.

That's what an idiot does when he gets angry. He destroys whatever's nearest, even if it's his own house!

There is a time for wondering what a man wants," said Fror, no fear at all in his. "And there is a time for splitting his head. This is that second time.

Bang! The end of his little finger, now, and three more pieces of the rest. His middle finger was down to the knuckle, almost. Severard stared, his eyes with with horror, his breath coming short, fast gasps. Shock, amazement, stunned terror. Glokta leaned down to his ear. 'I hope you weren't planning to take up the violin, Severard. You'll be lucky if you can play a fucking gong by the time we're done here.

In violent times folk like to kneel to violent men. In peaceful times they remember they're happier standing.

War is not natural. We have to be trained for it, soldiers and citizens alike.

ask explicitly how the "slow violence" of imperial formations is dislodged from the politics of its making and renamed.

I look to Agent Orange—the spreading of twenty million gallons of deadly herbicides across Vietnam by U.S. forces from 1961 to 1971—long studied as part of the history of warfare and combat zones and as environmental history but rarely joined with the enduring violence of compounded forms of imperial governance. It is far from the only one.

Being a cat is nice, said the nearby Cat. I grant you that. Being a cat means you can go from violence to affection without any discernible transition. I kill, I purr, I eat, I sleep.

I asked him if there was any effective treatment for people like Bundy. "He paused for a moment and said, 'Only a sledgehammer between the eyes.

I have a knife in my hand, slicing beef on the willowware plate, and I cut harder, faster, thinking it is your pink neck under my blade and I am cutting you into little pieces that I will bury in the meadow outside when there is no moon.

At the time, age eighteen, having been brought up in a hair-trigger society where the ground rules were – if no physically violent touch was being laid upon you, and no outright verbal insults were being levelled at you, and no taunting looks in the vicinity either, then nothing was happening, so how could you be under attack from something that wasn't there? At eighteen I had no proper understanding of the ways that constituted encroachment.

The day Somebody McSomebody put a gun to my breast and called me a cat and threatened to shoot me was the same day the milkman died.

To shoot up a district of women, children, prams and goldfish otherwise, to run them through with swords much as one might like to, would not look good, would look grave, sexist, unbalanced, not only in the glare of the critical side of the home media, but also in the eyes of the international media

Bilmemkim McBilmemkim'in gö?süme silah dayay?p bana kedi dedi?i ve beni ölümle tehdit etti?i gün, sütçü'nün de öldü?ü gündü.

Because of the violence that has been at work in my family for generations, I can't name one relative who believes that he or she is loveable, worthy of kindness, deserving of care, attention, gentleness. This is what violence does; it squeezes us down into creatures we are not meant to be, so self-loathing and fearful that it hurts too much to hope, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for things to begin badly, or end badly. Moments of joy and pleasure regarded with suspicion.

humanity, gunpowder, and blood. And felt