Quotes About Violence

Do you carry a gun? No. I own one. You think I should carry it? Statistically it will shorten your life, not lengthen it. The unpleasant truth is that if someone is trying to kill you there is not a whole lot you can do about it. Your only real safety would be in disappearing. And even with that there are no guarantees.

The next great war wont arrive until everyone who remembers the last one is dead. You think that nuclear war is inevitable. I agree with Plato that only the dead have seen an end to war. And people dont fight with rocks when they have guns. Etcetera and so on.

Pensó que cada recuerdo evocado debe violentar en alguna medida sus orígenes. Como en un juego. El juego del teléfono. Más vale ser parco. Lo que uno altera mediante el recuerdo tiene sin embargo una realidad, sea o no conocida.

Chigurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him. His mother's face, his First Communion, women he had known. The faces of men as they died on their knees before him. The body of a child dead in a roadside ravine in another country.

The next day on the far side of the mountain we encountered the two lads that had deserted us. Hangin upside down in a tree. They'd been skinned and I can tell ye it does very little for a man's appearance.

The next day on the far side of the mountain we encountered the two lads that had deserted us. Hangin upside down in a tree. They'd been skinned and I can tell ye it does very little for a man's appearance.

Glanton was first to reach the dying man and he knelt with that alien and barbarous head cradled between his thighs like some reeking outland nurse and dared off the savages with his revolver. They circled on the plain and shook their bows and lofted a few arrows at him and then turned and rode on. Blood bubbled from the man's chest and he turned his lost eyes upward, already glazed, the capillaries breaking up. In those dark pools there sat each a small and perfect sun.

The kid looked at the man. His head was strangely narrow and his hair was plastered up with mud in a bizarre and primitive coiffure. On his forehead were burned the letters H T and lower and almost between the eyes the letter F and these markings were splayed and garish as if the iron had been left too long. When he turned to look at the kid the kid could see that he had no ears.

This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair.

Call it, friend-O (No Country For Old Men)

The facade of the building bore an array of saints in their niches and they had been shot up by American troops trying their rifles, the figures shorn of ears and noses and darkly mottled with leadmarks oxidized upon the stone.

Toadvine was four steps above him and when he kicked him he caught him in the throat.

He heard the fireman clank shut the door and leave and he poured the coffee and stirred in milk from a can and sipped and blew and read of wildness and violence across the cup's rim. As it was then, is now and ever shall.

He was sat as before save headless, drenched in blood, the cigarillo still between his fingers, leaning toward the dark and smoking grotto in the flames where his life had gone. Glanton rose. The men moved away. No one spoke. When they set out in the dawn the headless man was sitting like a murdered anchorite discalced in ashes and sark. Someone had taken his gun but the boots stood where he'd put them.

He saw men killed with guns and with knives and with ropes and he saw women fought over to the death whose value they themselves set at two dollars. He saw ships from the land of China

He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man.

Blood. This country is give much blood. This Mexico. This is a thirsty country. The blood of a thousand Christs. Nothing

The good book says that he that lives by the sword shall perish by the sword, said

I was a born classicist and my heroes were never saints but killers.

Cormac McCarthy

He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence.

Let's hang the turd, called an ugly thug from the gallery...

Chigurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him

offered him her throat. In his rage he seized her up by the arm but the arm broke in his hand. A muted snap, like a dry stick. She gasped and cried out with the pain. Mira, he shouted. Mira, puta, que has hecho.