Quotes About Violence

The neo-Nazi expects to be met with violence on the street; this is the language of their mollified machismo, the sex appeal, especially for young men. Mockery can be a delightfully dangerous weapon. Dada unzips the fascist male and pulls down his combat pants, exposing him to ridicule.

What a shot! Now tell me Zurov wastes his time making holes in five-kopeck pieces! From forty paces straight into the back of the head, and you have to take the poor light into account.

You can build a throne of bayonets, but you can't sit on it for long.

The genocide didn't begin on the sixth of April 1994, but in 1959 through little massacres that no-one paid attention to.

Every war involves a greater or less relapse into barbarism. War, indeed, in its details, is the essence of inhumanity. It dehumanizes. It may save the state, but it destroys the citizen.

Dean Rusk never beat his wife. He was a decent man. He was a liberal. He was head of the Ford Foundation. And as Secretary of State during the Vietnam war, he killed over a hundred thousand people in a useless, wasteful, unnecessary, stupid war. We would all be better off if he had found a better way to express his anger. His time is passing with the turn of the century.

Adam kept his body close. He wrapped the gunman up in a bear hug, his momentum still pushing him forward. They fell hard on the concrete, forcing Adam to let go. The gunman took advantage of the moment. He connected with an elbow to Adam's head. The stars came back. So did the nearly paralyzing pain. Nearly paralyzing. The

Emma wouldn't wear anything the least bit feminine. Putting on a dress usually required a negotiation of Middle East sensitivity, with often an equally violent result.

In the movies, killers are omnipotent.

In the movies, killers are omnipotent. In real life, they are not. They don't escape from handcuffs in the middle of a high-security federal penitentiary.

Im selben Moment Otto mir seine Faust in den Bauch. Luft strömte aus meiner Lunge. Ich klappte in der Hüfte wie ein Koffer zusammen.

Heard you beat up a cop." "No." "In New York City. Said so on the news. He's in the hospital." "I was just trying to escape." "Still, my man. Props to you." "Yeah," the other goon says, speaking for the first time. "Props.

The men in here were big with undefined muscle. They wore flannel shirts in the fall and winter, and bowling-gut-emphasizing T-shirts in the spring and summer. They wore jeans year-round. There weren't many fights in here, but you didn't walk in a place like this unless you knew how to use your fists. Matt

It was while he was lost in that thought that Granite Man punched him deep in the stomach. The fist followed through to the point where it seemed the knuckles must have reached the fabric of the couch. Myron snapped closed at the waist. He dropped to the floor, struggled to regain a breath, suffocating from within. He lowered his head to his knees, consumed with one thought: air. He needed air. Susan

Does he have a record?" Perlmutter asked. "He was let out of Walden three months ago." "For?" "Armed assault," Daley said. "Wu cut a deal on that Scope case. I called and asked around. This is one very bad man." "How bad?" "Poop-in-your-pants bad. If ten percent of the rumors about this guy are true, I'm sleeping with my Barney the Dinosaur night-lite on.

It makes no difference." "Sure it does. That's why we have a system of justice, so that vigilantes like you don't irresponsibly call for mob violence against an innocent man.

Violence doesn't solve anything. Win would make a face when I said that, but the truth was, whenever I resorted to violence, it never just ended there. Violence ripples and reverberates. It echoes and really never seems to go silent.

My kick had landed on Bob's skull with force, jerking his head to the side. Bob's hands instinctively leapt off the steering wheel. The car veered sharply, sending Otto and me—and the gun—into a rolling heap. It was on.

If you put your hand in my pocket, you'll drag back six inches of bloody stump.

AM said it with the shriek of babies being ground beneath blue–hot rollers.

Socrates, in Plato, formulates ideas of order: the Iliad, like Shakespeare, knows that a violent disorder is a great order.

Poetry, at the best, does us a kind of violence that prose fiction rarely attempts or accomplishes.

Wild with laughter, Twelfth Night is nevertheless almost always on the edge of violence.

The elliptical mode in her poetry recalls late Shakespeare but is more extreme. A daemonic drive to negate precursors while maintaining their standards of excellence distinguishes her from some recent poetical ideologues of the feminist persuasion, whether in verse or prose. They claim Dickinson as ancestor, yet they do her wrong, she being so majestical, to offer her the show of violence.