Quotes About Violence

A true believer, indeed, need never draw a weapon, need never rise in argument, or howl in fury, or make fists, or roll in a mob to crush some helpless, innocent enemy. A true believer needs none of those things. How much of the world insists on living this lie?

Trull Sengar kills, and kills, and then, when it is done and he kneels in the blood of the kin he has slain, he weeps.

The blood in the fine, white sand was only a few hours old, still gummy to the touch. The stench of loosened bowels soured the hazy air.

Every body that darted within his reach he grasped, twisted, bent and broke.

Shall I loose the fleas on my head to rend your worthless flesh from your jellied bones?

The woman moved in a blur, one elbow driving backwards into the assassin's stomach. She twisted round and drove her knee into the man's crotch. A shout burst from Kalam as he reeled back a step, then fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

There would always be, he now understood, those for whom violence was righteous. Sudden

And there was another truth, one that seemed on the surface to contradict the first one. The gentler and kinder the god, the more harsh and cruel its worshippers, for they hold to their conviction with taut certainty, febrile in its extremity, and so cannot abide dissenters. They will kill, they will torture, in that god's name. And see in themselves no conflict, no matter how bloodstained their hands.

After all, war knows no other language. In war we invite our own destruction. In war we punish our children with a broken legacy of blood.

He'd stood amidst the ranks more than once, sensing the soldiers alongside him seeking and finding that place in the mind, cold and silent, the place where husbands, fathers, wives and mothers became killers. And practice made it easier, each time. Until it becomes a place you never leave.

Laughing, he'd flung dense clouds of earth and stone skyward to blind them.

War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one.

When thugs were in power, educated people were the first to feel their fists. It was so pathetic, really, how so much violence came from someone feeling small.

The assassin stepped in then, his left hand moving in a high swing that buried its blade in the councilman's neck.

Rallick followed this by driving his other knife into Orr's chest.

It was then, Duiker saw as his mount picked a careful path through the bodies, that madness had truly arrived. Men had been gutted, their entrails pulled out, wrapped around women—wives and mothers and aunts and sisters—who had been raped before being strangled with the intestinal ropes. The historian saw children with their skulls crushed, babies spitted on tapu skewers.

Onos T'oolan faced southeast. And then set out. He had a people to kill.

Religious wars are no fun.

They came with white hands and left with red hands.

Today, the empire is reborn. In violence and blood, as with all births. And what, when this day is done, shall we find lying in our lap? Eyes opening onto this world?

When faiths take knife in hand, surely every god must turn away.

Kalam knelt beside Quick Ben, studied the man's face for a moment, the slack expression, the closed eyes. Then he slapped the wizard. Hard. Quick Ben swore, then glared up at the assassin. 'I should crush you like a bug, Kalam.' 'Right now, I think,' he rumbled in reply, 'a bug's fart might blow you right off this ship, Quick.

the bloodlust of a mob was always louder than a lone, reasonable voice.

There's nothing usual about killing and dying, about pain and terror.