Quotes About Violence

You can tell if a person has come from the war: they are haunted from all the killing they have seen. It

Much is made of black-on-black crime—the common assertion that a high percentage of black people commit crimes against other blacks. But what is often left out are statistics about white-on-white crime, which is equally high. The fact is, we are largely a segregated society, and thus crimes committed in our segregated communities will more likely be committed against members of our own race.

Seconds later, they were in the midst of a full-fledged rock fight

I shook my head. 'Killing isn't woman's work,' I said. 'Why not?' she asked. 'We give life, can't we take it too?

I was screaming and hitting at him, but he thought it all so very funny, and he draped me belly down on the saddle in front of him and then he spurred into the chaos to continue the killing. And that was how I met Ragnar, Ragnar the Fearless, my brother's killer, and the man whose head was supposed to grace a pole on Bebbanburg's ramparts, Earl Ragnar.

It takes a weak man to prove his strength by striking a woman.

And, in her fury, she slapped the king with a skinned eel.

I was angry. I wanted blood in the dawn.

Many men do not beat their wives, even though the law allows it and the church encourages it, but a man gains no reputation by beating a weaker person. Æthelred had beaten Æthelflaed, but he was a weak man, and it takes a weak man to prove his strength by striking a woman.

Violence may not be good, my friend, but it has a certain efficiency in the resolution of otherwise insoluble problems.

Your mother didn't give birth to you, I told hint, but farted you out of her shrivelled arsehole. Frightened or not, Asser said, you've taken Peredur's silver, so you must fight them now. Say one more word, monk, I said, and I'll cut off your scrawny balls.

Cnut Longsword had near killed me with his blade Ice-Spite and it was small consolation that Serpent-Breath had sliced his throat in the same heartbeat that his sword had broken a rib and pierced my lung.

It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it.' Napoleon

I stood on the dead horse and spread my arms. I held the shield high to my left and the sword to my right, and my mail coat was spattered with blood and the snow fell about my wolf-crested helmet and all I knew was the young man's joy of slaughter. I killed Ubba Lothbrokson! I shouted at them. I killed him! So come and join him! Taste his death! My sword wants you!

The cellar was spattered with blood, with bodies that showed death in a dozen horrid ways. Wine-racks stood by the walls, looted empty, but the floor was black with Spanish blood, strewn with mutilations obscene as nightmare. Young, old, men and women, all killed horribly. It struck Sharpe that these people must have died the day before, as he watched from the hilltop, killed as the French pretended the village was empty.

The story hurries now. It quickens like a stream coming to a fall in the hills and, like a cascade foaming down jumbled rocks, it gets angry and violent, confused even. For it was in that year, 876, that the Danes made their greatest effort yet to rid England of its last kingdom, and the onslaught was huge, savage, and sudden.

Derfel] La mia spada era coperta di sangue, avevo la mano destra appiccicosa e la manica della cotta tutta macchiata, ma nemmeno una goccia di quel sangue era mia.

You can't take a city without shedding blood.

We cut off their long hair, for I liked to caulk my ships' planks with the hair of slain enemies

An English man-at-arms had his helmet split open and his skull with it, so that he rode wavering from the fight, blood pouring down his mail coat. His horse stopped a few paces from the turmoil and the man-at-arms slowly, so slowly, bent forward and then slumped down from his saddle. One foot was trapped in a stirrup as he died but his horse did not seem to notice. It just went on cropping the grass.

I could hardly see him in the darkness, but knew he wore a leather jerkin and had a sword at his side. The rest of us were in leather and mail, had helmets, and carried shields, axes, swords, or spears. Tonight we would kill. Sihtric

I kicked back my heels, but all I achieved was to ride out of the panicked mass into the path of the Danes, and all around me men were screaming and the Danish axes and swords were chopping and swinging. The grim work, the blood feast, the song of the blade, they call it.

They shouted for mercy, but we showed none because we were still under the thrall of Æthelflæd's savage wish.

I killed that ship's crew to save myself having to kill hundreds of other Danes." "The Lord Jesus would have wanted you to show mercy," she said, her eyes wide. She is an idiot.