Quotes About Violence

Kill every dog, every cat, she said slowly. Kill every mouse, every bird. Kill every fish. Anyone objects, kill them too.

How many times, through the long centuries of life on earth, has one group of men sneaked armed into the woods, hoping to surprise a second group not expecting them? And where has this gotten us?

I want to stab you, Dad, says the little boy. With a sharp sword, you're so dumb.

The shortfall between the imagined and the real, multiplied by the violence of one's intent, equals the evil one will do.

He's shouting that hatred and war made him nuts. I start running down the hill agreeing with him. The Mrs. gives me a look and puts her hands over Maribeth's ears. We're all running. The Mrs. starts screaming about the feel of the scythe as it opened her up. The girls bemoan their unborn kids. We make quite a group. Since I'm still alive I keep clipping trees with my shoulders and falling down.

I guess one never realizes how little one wants to be kicked to death until one hears a crowd doing that exact same thing to someone nearby," I say.

Qué es nuestra historia —desde el asesinato de Caín hasta los hornos de gas y la incineración nuclear—, sino la crónica de lo inhumano?

Because European countries now resolve differences through negotiation and consensus, there's sometimes an assumption that the entire world functions in the same way. But let us never forget ... beyond Europe's borders, in a world where oppression and violence are very real, liberation is still a moral goal, and freedom and security still need defenders.

For every fatal shooting, there were roughly three non-fatal shootings. And, folks, this is unacceptable in America.

We either deal with terrorism and this extremism abroad, or we deal with it when it comes to us.

Women are imprisoned in their homes, and are denied access to basic health care and education. Food sent to help starving people is stolen by their leaders. The religious monuments of other faiths are destroyed. Children are forbidden to fly kites, or sing songs... A girl of seven is beaten for wearing white shoes.

My first wish is to see this plague of mankind, war, banished from the earth

Lay waste all the settlements around... that the country may not be merely overrun, but destroyed ... listen to any overture of peace before the total ruin of their settlements is effected.

I imagine myself covered with blood, broken but transfigured and in agreement with the world, both as prey and as a jaw of time, which ceaselessly kills and is ceaselessly killed.

To put it more precisely, since language is by definition the expression of civilised man, violence is silent. Civilisation and language grew as though violence was something outside. But silence cannot do away with things that language cannot state. Violence is as stubbornly there just as much as death, and if language cheats to conceal universal annihilation, the placid work of time, language alone suffers, language is the poorer, not time and not violence.

I remember that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed,we crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty girl. Her head was almost totally ripped off by the wheels. For a long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror and despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon seeing one another.

In the violence of overcoming, in the disorder of my laughter and my sobbing, in the excess of raptures that shatter me, I seize on the similarity between a horror and a voluptuousness that goes beyond me, between an ultimate pain and an unbearable joy!

Realism gives me the impression of a mistake. Violence alone escapes the feeling of poverty of those realistic experiences. Only death and desire have the force that oppresses, that takes one's breath away. Only the extremism of desire and death enable one to attain the truth.

In this gathering place, where violence is ripe, at the boundary of that which escapes cohesion, he who reflects within cohesion realizes that there is no longer any room for him.

In this gathering place, where violence is rife, at the boundary of that which escapes cohesion, he who reflects within cohesion realizes that there is no longer any room for him.

Intellectual despair results in neither weakness nor dreams, but in violence. Thus abandoning certain investigations is out of the question. It is only a matter of knowing how to give vent to one's rage; whether one only wants to wander like madmen around prisons, or whether one wants to overturn them.

She walked home', explained Sir Roland. 'We were walking home, weren't we? Very well, then. She walked home. Passed Lethbridge's house. Went in. Hit him on the head with the poker. Came out. Met us in the street. There you are. Plain as a pikestaff.' 'Well, I don't know,' said the Viscount. 'Seems queer to me.

I don't mean to hurt you,' she assured him. `In fact, I told Lucius I did not wish them to hurt you more than was needful, and I do hope they did not?' `Oh, not at all, ma'am! I like being hit over the head with cudgels!' he said sardonically.

What is the use of a violent kind of delightfulness if there is no pleasure in not getting tired of it. - A substance in a cushion