Best 17621 quotes in «war quotes» category

Mogadishu the beautiful - your white-turbaned mosques, baskets of anchovies as bright as mercury, jazz and shuffling feet, bird-boned servant girls with slow smiles, the blind white of your homes against the sapphire blue of the ocean - you are missed, her dreams seem to say.

Mocniej przywarł do jej kolan - czuła przy sobie jego pierś,która opadała i wznosiła się w rytm przyspieszonego oddechu. A później jeszcze bardziej przybliżył się do jej twarzy. Jego oddech i usta spoczęły na mokrym policzku. Powoli scałowywał jej łzy. Najpierw delikatnie, łagodnie, ale z każdą minutą obsypywał ją pocałunkami coraz zachłanniej, namiętniej. Oddała się tej pieszczocie bez reszty, a wtedy ujął jej twarz w obie dłonie a na wargach poczuła jego miękkie ciepło. Całował ją zapamiętale, niemal boleśnie, jakby zaraz świat miał się skończyć, jakby za moment wszystko miało zmienić się w proch. Nieznane dotąd zniecierpliwienie wypełniło jej drobne ciało.

Modern warfare wasn't supposed to have this much blood in it. The weapons were supposed to cook everyone neatly, like eggs in their shells. (Mark Vorkosigan's first experience with warfare, on seeing Miles Vorkosigan splattered before him)

Modern war is the most highly developed of all sciences. We have perfected our weapons but failed to perfect the men who use them.

Modern sovereignty, whether expressed through killing in battle or the torture of suspects, brings together the desire to build up and the desire to destroy, to let Aid Agencies offer charity (in its original meaning of "love") while the military offers death. The two are intrinsically connected.

Monsters cut children open and call it progress. Monsters murder entire groups of people without blinking but get upset when they have to wash human ash from their garden strawberries. Monsters are the ones who watch other people do these things and do nothing to stop it.

More people have died in the name of religion than any other cause on earth. Is massacring God's creations really serving God - or the devil? And what father would want to see his children constantly divided and fighting? What God would allow a single human life to be sacrificed for monetary gain? Again, the Creator or the devil?

Moreover, when the issues at hand seem as perplexing as they often do in the case of this dreadful conflict, we are always on the verge of being mesmerized by uncertainty. But we must move on. Some of us who have already begun to break the silence of the night have found that the calling to speak is often a vocation of agony, but we must speak. We must speak with all the humility that is appropriate to our limited vision, but we must speak.

Morning comes. I go to my class. There sit the little ones with folded arms. In their eyes is still all the shy astonishment of the childish years. They look up at me so trustingly, so believingly - and suddenly I get a spasm over the heart. Here I stand before you, one of the hundreds of thousands of bankrupt men in whom the war destroyed every belief and almost every strength. Here I stand before you, and see how much more alive, how much more rooted in life you are than I. Here I stand and must now be your teacher and guide. What should I teach you? Should I tell you that in twenty years you will be dried-up and crippled, maimed in your freest impulses, all pressed mercilessly into the selfsame mold? Should I tell you that all the learning, all culture, all science is nothing but hideous mockery, so long as mankind makes war in the name of God and humanity with gas, iron, explosive and fire? What should I teach you then, you little creatures who alone have remained unspotted by the terrible years? What am I able to teach you then? Should I tell you how to pull the string of a hand grenade, how best to throw it at a human being? Should I show you how to stab a man with a bayonet, how to fell him with a club, how to slaughter him with a spade? Should I demonstrate how best to aim a rifle at such an incomprehensible miracle as a breathing breast, a living heart? Should I explain to you what tetanus is, what a broken spine is, and what a shattered skull? Should I describe to you what brains look like when they scatter about? What crushed bones are like - and intestines when they pour out? Should I mimic how a man with a stomach wound will groan, how one with a lung wound gurgles and one with a head wound whistles? More I do not know. More I have not learned. Should I take you the brown-and-green map there, move my finger across it and tell you that here love was murdered? Should I explain to you that the books you hold in your hands are but nets with which men design to snare your simple souls, to entangle you in the undergrowth of find phrases, and in the barbed wire of falsified ideas? I stand here before you, a polluted, a guilty man and can only implore you ever to remain as you are, never to suffer the bright light of your childhood to be misused as a blow flame of hate. About your brows still blows the breath of innocence. How then should I presume to teach you? Behind me, still pursuing, are the bloody years. - How then can I venture among you? Must I not first become a man again myself?

Most firefights go by so fast that acts of bravery or cowardice are more or less spontaneous. Soldiers might live the rest of their lives regretting a decision that they don’t even remember making; they might receive a medal for doing something that was over before they even knew they were doing it.

Most of the time, we see only what we want to see, or what others tell us to see, instead of really investigate to see what is really there. We embrace illusions only because we are presented with the illusion that they are embraced by the majority. When in truth, they only become popular because they are pounded at us by the media with such an intensity and high level of repetition that its mere force disguises lies and truths. And like obedient schoolchildren, we do not question their validity and swallow everything up like medicine. Why? Because since the earliest days of our youth, we have been conditioned to accept that the direction of the herd, and authority anywhere — is always right.

Most of the oppression of Muslims in the world right now is carried out by other Muslims.

Most people coming out of a war feel lost and resentful. What had been a minute-to-minute confrontation with yourself, your struggle with what courage you have against discomfort, at the least, and death at the other end, ties you to the people you have known in the war and makes, for a time, all others seem alien and frivolous. Friends are glad to see you again, but you know immediately that most of them have put you to one side, and while it is easy enough to say that you should have known that before, most of us don't, and it is painful. You are face to face with what will happen to you after death.

Most people have no imagination. If they could imagine the sufferings of others, they would not make them suffer so. What separated a German mother from a French mother? Slogans which deafened us so that we could not hear the truth.

Most of us today can trace genealogical records — things like birth certificates, census forms and immigration records — to learn about those who came before us. For an entire generation of Azerbaijanis, however, those searches usually yield absolutely nothing.

Most people thought that we would remain in the ghetto until the end of the war, until the arrival of the Red Army. Afterward everything would be as before. The ghetto was ruled by neither German nor Jew; it was ruled by delusion.

Mothers cowered over their small children, defenceless as their backs blossomed with red lines or swords were sunk into their flesh to reach the young ones they hid.

Mother nature has no involvement with the existence of a dystopia in our society. . A dystoopia comes into existence when human beings neglects the importance of maintaining a clean environment or cause destruction against a massive group of other people for an illogical/negative purpose.

Mothers should negotiate between nations. Mothers of fighting countries would agree: Stop this killing now. Stop it now.

Msamaha si jambo dogo. Watu wadogo, watu wenye uwezo mdogo wa kufikiri, hawawezi kupambana na changamoto za msamaha. Msamaha ni kwa ajili ya watu wenye macho kama ya tai wanaoweza kuona mbali ambao wako tayari kushindwa vita ili washinde vita. Hewa inaingia ndani ya mapafu na kutoka; chakula kinaingia ndani ya mwili na kutoka; mwanamasumbwi anapigana bila kugombana; injini ya gari haiwezi kusukuma gari mbele au nyuma bila kutoa hewa katika paipu ya ekzosi. Lakini kile kinachoingia moyoni mwako hakitoki! Maumivu yanapoingia ndani ya moyo yanapaswa kutoka nje kama yalivyoingia kwa sababu, yasipotoka yatatengeneza sumu ndani ya moyo wako na yatatengeneza sumu ndani ya roho yako pia. Sumu hiyo itahatarisha safari yako ya mbinguni na Mungu hatakusamehe tena. Badala ya yule aliyekukosea kuumia, utaumia wewe uliyekosewa. Yesu anaposema samehe saba mara sabini hatanii. Usiposamehe, hutasamehewa.

Much of the local population had fled countries under siege, in the midst of war, and had not expected to find such artillery used against citizens of the United States.

Murder's a blatant way of dying, a tautology, the art form of parrots, a manual matter, the knack for catching life's fly in the hairs of the gunsight by youngsters acquainted with blood through either hearsay or violating virgins.

Multiculturalism destroys the true diversity which nature requires for the continued evolution of the species through the natural selection process of differentiation and competition between specialized populations within a group.

Mulțimea aceea vrednică de milă nu mai avea nimic uman, ci semăna cu o turmă care aleargă în devălmășie; erau prinși în matca unei uniformități ciudate. Hainele șifonate, fețele trase, vocile răgușite îi făceau să semene toți între ei. Toți făceau aceleași gesturi, rosteau aceleași cuvinte.

My advice for those of you who felt being marginalised, undervalued and taken for granted; guess what? That is the Arena where God creates Leaders.

Music in war is a candle in the darkness; it is a kindness in the Land of Rudeness; it is a civilisation in the middle of barbarity; it is a wisdom amongst the foolishness!

Must be some missing, though, to my way of thinking. The ones you win a war with. Have some supper?

My body is a political battlefield. It is a place of war, of death and suffering, of triumph and victory, of damage and repair, of blood and tears and sweat. It is a place where memories go to find purpose for their existence. It is a place where humans cast all inhibitions aside to discover what exists at their very core. It is a place of growth wearing a mask of destruction. It is a challenge, not for the faint of heart, beckoning us to face it with eyes wide open. The only war is within. When you are ready to fight it, the field awaits.

My dear Tristan, to be an artist at all is like living in Switzerland during a world war. To be an artist in Zurich, in 1917, implies a degree of self-absorption that would have glazed over the eyes of Narcissus.

My faith gives me the ability to say, whatever is next, I'm ready. If it is Hillary or Trump I am ready because they might sit on the desk but they do not sit on the throne.

my face for peace - no more war in my name

My family says they are proud of me. Of course, I would rather hear this than the contrary, but I cannot say that I am proud of myself, so I find that I cannot 'talk about it'.

My definition of an intellectual is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger" - Billy Connolly

My father's haunting memories of war had been transformed into my own haunting memories. Such is the power of war and memory.

..my feelings for the countryside…the beauty and the wildness, the enchantment of so much colour and life and warmth of the sun. Most people are restless in the country, they feel a vacancy, and want to get back to the shops and pavements and traffic; what they call life. Sometimes this war seems to have come directly out of that restlessness.

My heart was my brother. And I no longer believe in a world that says he was too weak to deserve life.

My God had not spoken to me again. But neither had He forsaken me. I knew that. For damned sure, I knew that.

My God, what have they done to you? This isn't a man, it's a broken kite.

My heart is full and my weapon is clean.

My life wasn’t just about one city, or one Epic, anymore. It was about a war. It was about finding a way to stop the Epics. Permanently.

My loves have always been seared with this singing, this singing written by death, the way some lands have always been crippled by war.

My mom and dad refused to believe that people who had grown up together in peace and friendship, had gone to the same schools, spoken the same language, and listened to the same music, could overnight be blinded by ethnic hatred and start to brutally kill one another. They simply didn't accept as true that less than two years of a multiparty system and competition for power could poison people's brains so much.

My mother used to say, Preeto, there is never a right or a wrong side to a problem, but there can be to people. Not everyone here is on the right side, not everyone there is. You need to ask yourself, which side do you want to be on?

My own concern is primarily the terror and violence carried out by my own state, for two reasons. For one thing, because it happens to be the larger component of international violence. But also for a much more important reason than that; namely, I can do something about it. So even if the U.S. was responsible for 2 percent of the violence in the world instead of the majority of it, it would be that 2 percent I would be primarily responsible for. And that is a simple ethical judgment. That is, the ethical value of one's actions depends on their anticipated and predictable consequences. It is very easy to denounce the atrocities of someone else. That has about as much ethical value as denouncing atrocities that took place in the 18th century.

My preferred weapon of mass destruction (WMD) is scientific discovery.

mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy

My self, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead, What with recalling of the prophecy, And that our native stones from English arms Rebel against us, find myself attainted With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear. King John – Act IV, scene 7

My squad was my family, my gun was my provider and protector, and my rule was to kill or be killed. The extent of my thoughts didn’t go much beyond that. We had been fighting for over two years, and killing had become a daily activity. I felt no pity for anyone.

Naphta loathed the bourgeois state and its love of security. He found occasion to express this loathing one autumn afternoon when, as they were walking along the main street, it suddenly began to rain and, as if on command, there was an umbrella over every head. That was a symbol of cowardice and vulgar effeminacy, the end product of civilization. An incident like the sinking of the Titanic was atavistic, true, but its effect was most refreshing, it was the handwriting on the wall. Afterward, of course, came the hue and cry for more security in shipping. How pitiful, but such weak-willed humanitarianism squared very nicely with the wolfish cruelty and villainy of slaughter on the economic battlefield known as the bourgeois state. War, war ! He was all for it – the universal lust for war seemed quite honorable in comparison.

—¿Nada más que eso? Vaya, pero si es muy fácil. Hasta los niños conocen que hemos perdidos. ¿Pero sabe qué? De nosotros, los grandes derrotados de la historia, a menos que hayamos sido con toda evidencia tan locos y degenerados como Calígula, el mundo siempre se preguntará si no sentíamos culpa por la real o supuesta cagada que nos mandamos.Las personas sienten culpa para no reconocer que tienen bloqueado el sentir. No sienten nada, en el fondo, porque son unos insensibles y la culpa es un sustituto. Si no se sintieran culpables, no tendrían más remedio que ver su gran vacío. Pero si pese a lo dicho fuesen adelante y rechazaran la culpa, ocurriría una de las dos cosas: o que se destruyesen, o que adquirieran la posibilidad de tornarse más humanos y con auténticos sentimientos. Yo me siento responsable por la pérdida de la guerra y por todos los muertos. Pero no culpable. Sé que es muy difícil, casi una disciplina yoga, y se torna un problema insoluble para la gente común en razón de que el Anti-ser tergiversa todo: inventa delitos haciendo pasar por abominable y vergonzoso lo que nunca lo fue, etc. Primero se inventó la culpa y después se arrastró al ser humano hasta que coincidiese con la falta supuesta. Después tal coincidencia le fue echado en cara, naturalmente, con lo cual el hombre, por sí mismo, aplicó el látigo con su cuerpo y su ser. ¿Quién dice que el movimiento continuo no existe?: la culpa es ese motor que sólo necesita que le den energía una vez y luego sigue marchando para siempre. No fue fácil convencer a los hombres de que eran culpables de sexo, vida y alegría. Llevó miles de años. Pero una vez que la máquina se pone en marcha ya únicamente puede pararla un milagro social. Nuestra Tecnocracia fue uno de los intentos del hombre por desmontar ese mecanismo diabólico. Así, pues, ahora, ni siquiera quien cometió un delito debe prestarse al juego. Es indispensable que tal persona no sienta culpa, pero, al mismo tiempo, que lo reconozca todo y no busque justificativos que lo dejen tranquilo. No bloquear, pero tampoco suicidarse. Un hombre puede matarse, pero nunca por flaqueza culposa.