Quotes About Violence

Years later, she poked through the Bible—because okay let's be honest that was her Swedish Death Metal phase and suddenly a bloody guy on a cross held a certain romantic sway—and all she found was a few nice platitudes swaddled in a whole lot of hypocrisy, violence, and misogyny. No way was she going to church.

She didn't get a chance to demonstrate any of her skills—the man was just fucking her mouth, plain and simple.

Annabelle, I'm going to kill you! I cried, frowning at the mess. Then I glanced down the stairway and gasped. It looked like someone had beaten me to it.

Until the last man threw away his weapon (any sort of weapon), the tribe of Man could not be at peace.

aimed not at military concentrations, but at total populations. He

Sport, they called it, but that had been nothing more than a softer name for the bloodlust that man had carried

He started down the slope towards it, dressed in the blood of his enemy.

What are you trying to prove? Do you think if you kill enough people in the worst ways imaginable they'll give you a name like the Madman, or the Butcher? It doesn't matter how many abhorrent tortures you devise. You'll always be the Pinhead.

I've heard writers defend some pretty appalling stuff by arguing that they have an obligation to depict the world as it is, but fiction has no such obligation. It's not a mirror to reality, it's a prism. It refracts experience. Also, I think some writers are reluctant to admit that part of their aim is to shock the reader, and that's a downward spiral. We have, as consumers, become increasingly inured to violence. Most of us are pretty hard to shock.

New York was just a city. He had seen her wake in the morning like a slut, and pick murdered men from between her teeth, and suicides from the tangles of her hair.

Every part of the dead kid's anatomy was swaying hypnotically. The tongue, hanging from the open mouth. The head, lolling on its slit neck. Even the youth's penis flapped from side to side on his plucked groin. The head wound and the open jugular still pulsed blood into a black bucket. There was an elegance about the whole sight: the sign of a job well done.

That madwoman threatened to shoot off my testicles.

Segun la visión ortodoxa neoliberal, el socialismo se derrumbó y murió bajo sus propias contradicciones. Pero... no podriamos imaginar una posibilidad alternativa, la de que el socialismo no se derrumbó sino que fue derribado al suelo a porrazos, y que no murió sino que lo asesinaron?

In our modern age, cell phone technology permits us to record the constant brutality that occurs all around us; we experience not an uptick in violence but a new kind of witnessing.

What had started it, the mess this week? A white cop shot an unarmed black boy three times and killed him. Good old American know-how on display: We do marvels, we do injustice, and our hands were always busy.

What else was an ongoing criminal enterprise complicated by periodic violence for, but to make your wife happy?

Two white men in two days had their hands around her. Was this a condition of her freedom? Caesar

The white boys bruised differently than the black boys and called it the Ice Cream Factory because you came out with bruises of every color. The black boys called it the White House because that was its official name and it fit and didn't need to be embellished. The White House delivered the law and everybody obeyed.

It occurred to her one night that she was one of the vengeful monsters they were scared of: She had killed a white boy. She might kill one of them next. And because of that fear, they erected a new scaffolding of oppression on the cruel foundation laid hundreds of years before.

When the state of Florida dug him up fifty years later, the forensic examiner noted the fractures in the wrists and speculated that he'd been restrained before he died, in addition to the other violence attested by the broken bones. Most of those who know the story of the rings in the trees are dead by now. The iron is still there. Rusty. Deep in the heartwood. Testifying to anyone who cares to listen.

Before I came back to North Carolina, I'd never seen a mob rip a man limb from limb," Martin said. "See that, you stop saying what folks will do and what they won't." True

Other patrollers carried guns and eagerly cut down any rascal dumb enough to flee

He felt unreal those days of the riots when his streets were made strange by violence. Despite what America saw on the news, only a fraction of the community had picked up bricks and bats and kerosene. The devastation had been nothing compared to what lay before him now, but if you bottled the rage and hope and fury of all the people of Harlem and made it into a bomb, the results would look something like this.

Poetry and prayer put ideas in people's heads that got them killed, distracting them from the ruthless mechanism of the world. After