Best 2450 quotes in «anger quotes» category

There is something quite healthy to the feeling of anger. When you listen to music that makes you hate more the ones you're supposed to hate, for example, we can say music has a healing power. It would be unhealthy to love people that constantly hurt you, either they are family, spouses or even children. It is sick to think that anyone can be immune to hate, as it is delusional to believe some people, for having a pretty face or an innocent smile, are immune to karma, to the price they must pay for what they do, in this or previous reincarnations. You see, you may not hate them, and they will still pay the price for what they do. So hate is nothing more than the need to scratch the skin when a large bird is above your head plucking your brain. It's normal. To hate it is also normal. And to hit that bird really hard is healthy. To kill the bird may not be necessary, but wouldn't be unnatural either.

There must have been something in her voice, because he turned to look at her. Her hand cracked across his face, a slap that rocked him back on his heels. He put his hand to his cheek, more in surprise than pain. "What the hell was that for?" "The other ten percent,” she said.

There she stood, hiding; the mother without child, the voiceless woman full of anger. Her smoked nails hammered her evaporated heart snivelling in the grotty kitchen of disaster. Her face, depleted, cauterised. Her eyes wheezed shame at what she knew would happen to her daughter, again and all over again.

There's a story behind every "I don't believe in love" "Period

Theres no competition in DESTINY. Run your own RACE and wish others WELL!!!

There wasn't an asteroid big enough to punch. Not this time. Not even the moon.

There was one story that anger certainly lit the fuse of. In the 1960's, in my home town of Jackson, the civil rights leader Medgar Evers was murdered on night in darkness and I wrote a story that same night about the murderer (identity unknown) called "Where Is The Voice Coming From?" But all that absorbed me, though it started as outrage, was the necessity I felt for entering into the mind and inside the skin of a character who could hardly have been more alien or repugnant to me. Trying for my utmost, I wrote in the first person. I was wholly vaunting the prerogative of the short-story writer. It is always vaunting, of course, to imagine yourself inside another person, but it is what a story writer does in every piece of work; it is his first step, and his last too, I suppose. I'm not sure this story was brought off; and I don't believe that my anger showed me anything about human character that my sympathy and rapport never had.

The rich believe that their money will insulate them from setbacks and frustrations, and that's one of the absurdist expectations of all.

The richest people in the world build networks and invest in people; everyone else looks for work and invests in survival.

These humans—they are cruel monsters. Liars. Deceitful. For the first time, I want to hurt them the way they hurt me. This is so unfair. My body feels numb, my energy spent, my mind deceived and angry.

These were highly intelligent, able-bodied men who were denied access to stable high-paying jobs, which in turn kept them from being able to buy homes, send their kids to college, or save for retirement. It pained them, I know, to be cast aside, to be stuck in jobs that they were overqualified for, to watch white people leapfrog past them at work, sometimes training new employees they knew might one day become their bosses. And it bred within each of them at least a basic level of resentment and mistrust: You never quite knew what other folks saw you to be.

The sin of quick anger is an idol of the heart that is not dying to our own rights.

The smoke shifted direction and I breathed in. Breathed out. On the inhale I was angry. On the exhale…there it was again. Fear. The fear made me angry and the anger made me afraid and I wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Or who I was.

The song is an unvarnished love shout, an implorement tinged with...anger? Something like anger, but the anger of a philosoher, the anger of a pot. An anger directed at the transience of the world, at its heartbreaking beauty that collides constantly with our awareness of the fact that everything gets taken away, that we're being shown marvels but reminded always that they don't belong to us. They're sultans' treasures; we're lucky, we're expected to feel lucky to have been invited to see them at all.

The sound of thunder awake me, and when I got up, my feet sank into muddy water up to my ankles. Mother took Buster and Helen to high ground to pray, but I stayed behind with Apache and Lupe. We barricaded the door with the rug and started bailing water out the window. Mother came back and begged us to go pray with her on the hilltop. "To heck with praying!" I shouted. "Bail, dammit, bail!" Mom look mortified. I could tell she thought I'd probably doomed us all with my blasphemy, and I was a little shocked at it myself, but with the water rising so fast, the situation was dire. We had lit the kerosene lamp, and we could see the walls of the dugout were beginning to sag inward. If Mom had pitched in and helped, there was a chance we might have been able to save the dugout - not a good chance, but a fighting chance. Apache and Lupe and I couldn't do it on our own, though, and when the ceiling started to cave, we grabbed Mom's walnut headboard and pulled it through the door just as the dugout collapsed in on itself, burying everything. Afterward, I was pretty aggravated with Mom. She kept saying that the flood was God's will and we had to submit to it. But I didn't see things that way. Submitting seemed to me a lot like giving up. If God gave us the strength to bail - the gumption to try to save ourselves - isn't that what he wanted us to do?

The source of evil is desire, greed, and anger.

THE SPACE BETWEEN US Mind the space, so long endured, it’s best for our protection. I hope it’s true, for if it’s not a thousand loves have I betrayed. Look closer, dear, a voice it sings as if it was a lullaby. But if I heed it may become the lure of my demise. In fear, we come together seeking a place of refuge. In fear, we keep the space lest our refuge become our captor. The moments of sweetness so easily discarded when danger calls from the abyss between the two. Do not push away love’s hand in punishment for what it cannot give. Together we bypass the gap which is as deep as it is old. Forget the chasm so jaded with angry dreams. Our fear is empty-handed. Love’s hand has room for the other.

The stark nakedness and simplicity of the conflict with which humanity is oppressed - that of getting angry with and wishing to hurt the very person who is most loved.

The strongest man is the one who, when he gets angry and his face reddens and his hackles rise, is able to defeat his anger. (Reported by Imaam Ahmad, 5/367, and classified as hasan in Saheeh al-Jaami’, 3859)

The task— especially for the newly awakened, the newly angry, especially for the white women, for whom incentives to renounce their rage will be highest in coming years—is to keep going, to not turn back, to not give in to the easier path, the one where we weren’t angry all the time, where we accepted the comforts of racial and economic advantage that will always be on offer to those who don’t challenge power. Our job is to stay angry . . . perhaps for a very long time.

The Sunday school trip: While us girls were alone, a nasty piece of work called Louise, aged about eleven, decided that it would be a ‘fun’ idea to hang someone over the cliff ... me!

The things this man does to me are beyond what I feel should be possible. Butterflies. Fucking butterflies. Damn him.

The thing about our choices is that after we have made them, they turn around and make us.

The thing about fear that no one tells you is that it's like the cup in the myth of Thor: you can drink and drink and you will never be done. Fastidiously, steadily, without consciousness, you can devote everything you have to being afraid. Through dedication-- or mere habit, really-- fear becomes as hardwired within you as the length of your scrawny limbs or the color of your turd-brown eyes. Fear doesn't define you, fear /is/ you: your breath, your eyes, your ears, your mouth. /You/ are the house ablaze. You are the earth being torn apart. You are the masked men, their hunger, their rage. You are the vacant eyes of what really happened in Vietnam. Until something real happens. When something real happens, you're not even afraid anymore. Brittle, maybe, or a little coarse. Fear leaves and a kind of anger settles in its place. And you know what? There was never any point! The sleepless nights, the churning in your gut, the gnawed-down fingernails-- what a waste! Because the most frightening thing possible will never even occur to you. If anything, /that's/ what's you should fear. That you will never, ever anticipate the thing you should have feared the most.

The thing you have to know is, life can't get you anywhere. It's the pain that build up inside you that gets you places. Anger and pain are the key to any mans survival, the more Anger you have and more pain you have, it makes you strong. It makes you want to finish what you started, especially when everyone's saying you can't.

The wise communicate in subtle ways.

The truth is, there are not two kinds of people. There’s only one: the kind that loves to divide up into gangs who hate each other’s guts. Both conservatives and liberals agree among themselves, on their respective message boards, in uncannily identical language, that their opponents lack any self-awareness or empathy, the ability to see the other side of an argument or to laugh at themselves. Which would seem to suggest that they’re both correct.

The whole world dislikes kashays (inner weakness of anger-pride-deceit-greed) and yet, all the kashays of the world are done willfully. One doesn’t like to be angry and yet he claims anger is necessary.

(the whole world is at the throat of the world, everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated, everybody is despondent, disillusioned.) I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness.

The trouble with anger is, it gets hold of you. And then you aren't the master of yourself. Anger is.

The trouble with being angry is that it not only makes you feel stupid, it encourages you to say stupid things as well. Stupid things that are hard to take back and impossible to erase.

The voice that says, “That’s the way I am,” is the voice of knowledge. It’s the voice of the liar living in the Tree of Knowledge in your head. The Toltec consider it a mental disease that is highly contagious because it’s transmitted from human to human through knowledge. The symptoms of the disease are fear, anger, hatred, sadness, jealousy, conflict, and separation between humans. Again, these lies are controlling the dream of our life. I think this is obvious.

The weight of your words is more important than the volume of your voice!

The winning strategy is the one that successfully adapts to the changing circumstances of time, place, and person.

The world needs more anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn't angry enough.

The world seemed to go red. He wanted to scream his outrage, to charge at Skarn and tear the murdering bastard's face off with his bare teeth. But he knew that meant certain death. No, he had to be ice. Not fire, but ice.

The worst grudge is being told that you are forgiven, yet your sins are still glowing in their hearts like a burning coal.

The wrath of God is never an evil wrath. God gets angry because he loves people like a mother would love her child if someone were to harm it. There is something wrong if the mother never gets angry; it is safe to say that that is the unloving mother.

The world’s most lethal venom is not found on the tongues of serpents, but on the tongues of a disgruntled wife.

The worst employer is the one who vents his frustrations on his employees.

They did this to me. They did that to me. A woman who thinks that way will never overcome her anger. You are not being punished for your anger. You're being punished by your anger.

They fight like puppies. They are young, and boys. They are full of anger and impatience. Women have less trouble with these things. It's part of what makes us better fighters.

They hate people and their stories; they have hated for so long and with such intensity that in the end the darkness enveloped their whole bodies until their shapes were no longer discernible. That is also why they are so difficult to defeat, because they can disappear into walls or into the ground or float up. They're ferocious and bloodthirsty, and if you're bitten by one you don't just die; a far more serious and terrible fate lies in store: you lose your imagination. (talking about shadows)

They have hung my mother. Curse them! in every way curse them! She was no party to the mad freaks of Booth! She has been murdered by Johnson, but I will have it even with them yet.

Think about the suffering we cause ourselves internally through getting angry or jealous.

They said" Your Anger could Destroy you.." Even if my Brain designed it to Destroy my enemy.

They say grief occurs in five stages. First there's denial followed by anger. Then comes bargaining, depression and acceptance. But grief is a merciless master. Just when you think you're free you realize you never stood a chance.

Thinking of a problem as a situation that is unwelcome or harmful can be limiting and distracting. When we attach ourselves to dissecting and focusing on the negativity of the problem, we take away valuable time and effort from finding the solution. When we allow our problem to emotionally outweigh our search for a solution, we aren’t as open to the many possible solutions. In fact, both solutions and problems are just options—except one works and the other doesn’t.

This book is about how anger works for men in ways that it does not for women, how men like both Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders can wage yelling campaigns and be credited with understanding--and compellingly channeling--the rage felt by their supporters while their female opponents can be jeered and mocked as shrill for speaking too loudly of forcefully into a microphone.

This fact is that the heaviest and more burdensome load ever is neither the cement bag nor the iron rod. It is hatred.