Best 2450 quotes in «anger quotes» category

Helping others is an effective way of training oneself.

Her anger said, as anger is apt to say, that God was with her— that all heaven, though it were crowded with spirits watching them, must be on her side.

Her anger was rekindled. 'You see, I keep it to myself, but, oh! it's more than I can stand. Don't say anything, sir; don't say anything , or I'll explode!' He said nothing, and she exploded all the same.

Here’s the thing, people: We have some serious problems. The lights are off. And it seems like that’s affecting the water flow in part of town. So, no baths or showers, okay? But the situation is that we think Caine is short of food, which means he’s not going to be able to hold out very long at the power plant.” “How long?” someone yelled. Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.” “Why can’t you get him to leave?” “Because I can’t, that’s why,” Sam snapped, letting some of his anger show. “Because I’m not Superman, all right? Look, he’s inside the plant. The walls are thick. He has guns, he has Jack, he has Drake, and he has his own powers. I can’t get him out of there without getting some of our people killed. Anybody want to volunteer for that?" Silence. “Yeah, I thought so. I can’t get you people to show up and pick melons, let alone throw down with Drake.” “That’s your job,” Zil said. “Oh, I see,” Sam said. The resentment he’d held in now came boiling to the surface. “It’s my job to pick the fruit, and collect the trash, and ration the food, and catch Hunter, and stop Caine, and settle every stupid little fight, and make sure kids get a visit from the Tooth Fairy. What’s your job, Zil? Oh, right: you spray hateful graffiti. Thanks for taking care of that, I don’t know how we’d ever manage without you.” “Sam…,” Astrid said, just loud enough for him to hear. A warning. Too late. He was going to say what needed saying. “And the rest of you. How many of you have done a single, lousy thing in the last two weeks aside from sitting around playing Xbox or watching movies? “Let me explain something to you people. I’m not your parents. I’m a fifteen-year-old kid. I’m a kid, just like all of you. I don’t happen to have any magic ability to make food suddenly appear. I can’t just snap my fingers and make all your problems go away. I’m just a kid.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam knew he had crossed the line. He had said the fateful words so many had used as an excuse before him. How many hundreds of times had he heard, “I’m just a kid.” But now he seemed unable to stop the words from tumbling out. “Look, I have an eighth-grade education. Just because I have powers doesn’t mean I’m Dumbledore or George Washington or Martin Luther King. Until all this happened I was just a B student. All I wanted to do was surf. I wanted to grow up to be Dru Adler or Kelly Slater, just, you know, a really good surfer.” The crowd was dead quiet now. Of course they were quiet, some still-functioning part of his mind thought bitterly, it’s entertaining watching someone melt down in public. “I’m doing the best I can,” Sam said. “I lost people today…I…I screwed up. I should have figured out Caine might go after the power plant.” Silence. “I’m doing the best I can.” No one said a word. Sam refused to meet Astrid’s eyes. If he saw pity there, he would fall apart completely. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.

Her eyes flashed seven kinds of hell.

Her little chin lifted and I could see the fierceness in her eyes that told me she was angry. Her pupils dilated and her skin flushed. I wondered if she would look just as beautiful when she was in the throws of passion.

Her silence should be feared more than her words.

Her self lagged behind her anger, like a mother picking up after a destructive child.

He saw something more in those eyes. The emotion wasn't nakedly apparent, but Mr. Cawley was a professional at reading the subtleties of people. The elderly and wildly successful credit card magnate believed that certain human frailties could actually help fuel success. Insecurity drove billionaire entrepreneurs. Emotional instability made for superb art. The need for attention built great political leaders. But anger, in his experience, led only to inertia.

He seemed to believe that indignation was a sufficient guardian.

He said he loved more than any other women he's ever loved and I had a black eye to prove it.

He said 'sorry,' They all fucking say sorry...Sorry is a word, it fixes nothing; it just makes the perpetrator feel a little less like the arsehole he is.

He's got courage," Alex said. "Courage!" Raoul bellowed. "That coward almost kills him and--

He's not god! He's just the asshole who fucks with us.

He turned to Edwin. "You know, the stuff you just told me makes more sense than all the weird things the counselors and psychologist have told me in school and at the detention center." Edwin tapped Cole's shoulder with the broken stick. "That's because those people still think you can get rid of the left end of the stick.

He tries to force the anger down, but it's like an anvil on his chest. He closes his eyes, like Sammy taught him, and forces the anvil up; he softens.

He turned down the passageway to their little parlor, and sent the door swinging open with a crash. "Losing my temper will not help," he said, and gave the door a vicious kick.

He was angry; not as the irritable, from chafing of a trifle; nor was his anger like the fool's, pumped from the wells of nothing, to be dissipated by a reproach or a curse; it was the wrath peculiar to ardent natures rudely awakened by the sudden annihilation of a hope --dream, if you will-- in which the choicest happinesses were thought to be certainly in reach. In such case nothing intermediate will carry off the passion --the quarrel is with Fate.

He was rebuilt, reconstituted by vengeance dressed up as high purpose.

... He was not for that moment a human being, but a frenzied creature possessed by rage, turned into an animal. All that could be seen in him was the urge to hurt, and it was, as it always will be, the most dreadful sight in the world.

He was red with anger, except where he was white with rage. When he spoke, his words seared through the air like so many knives, clipped as topiary, crisp as biscuits.

He was surprised at how angry he sounded -no, how angry he felt. Because it was impossible. It was impossible and unfair, and he had spent too many years in the trenches of unfairness to get riled up about it now.

He who fears alcohol MUST also fear ANGER, for anger is more powerful and dangerous than the alcohol.

He wondered what his heart would look like if he could pluck it from his chest and inspect it.

He who has conquered his internal enemies, to such an Arihant, I bow down to them. Learn to recognize the inner enemies. Anger, pride, deceit and greed are the inner enemies.

Highlighting strengths increases sales.

His anger took many shapes: sometimes soft and familiar, like a round stone he had caressed for so long that is was perfectly smooth and polished; sometimes it was thin and sharp like a blade that could slice through anything; sometimes it had the form of a star, radiating his hatred in all directions, leaving him numb and empty inside.

His face became a mirror, and in it I saw a monster version of myself, unleashing my anger like black magic. In front of my children, in front of my neighbors' house. If I'd really been a witch Nathan would have been a column of dust. Not even a lizard, not even a toad. Just nothing. Nothingness,

His anger was as great as mine, but hot where mine was cold.

His chest still burned, so much he couldn’t tell where the anger stopped and the wound began.

Hon är arg på sig själv för att hon då och då går in på Grand Hyatt Hotel vid Namsan Park och dricker en kopp te för 80 kronor. Hon är arg över att Grand Hyatt Hotel finns överhuvudtaget. Hon är arg att det finns rika människor överhuvudtaget. Hon är arg att det finns fattiga människor överhuvudtaget.

His resiliency was not the resiliency of the dumb but of a lamb who can remember hurt but cannot sustain the anger or the bitterness that brittles the heart.

His suppressed grief becomes anger. But what can he do with anger? It must also be suppressed.

His targets had little in common, other than that they had somehow aroused his enmity.

...his soul (was) ringing like a well-struck bell. But it was a bell that rang with more than joy and adoration — there was the sound there too of anger and resentment. She would not look at him because she did not want to be in his presence. She hated him and he (how could he not?) hated her in return.

Holding a grudge & harboring anger/resentment is poison to the soul. Get even with people...but not those who have hurt us, forget them, instead get even with those who have helped us.

How can I use what most excites, angers, or upsets me to achieve what I most want to be, do, or experience?

How long you will live in your dreams? The time is now, it's better to go and follow them..

How do you let go of anger? How do you release a fury you’ve been standing on for so long, you would stumble were it yanked away?

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

How impotent my anger was, a surge with no place to land, and how familiar that was: my feelings strangled inside me, like little half-formed children, bitter and bristling.

How must it have felt, Pikes, the night they seized your films, like entrails yanked from the camera, out of your guts, clutching them in coils and wads to stuff them up a stove to burn away! Did it feel as bad as having some fifty thousand books annihilated with no recompense? Yes. Yes. Stendahl felt his hands grow cold with the senseless anger.

How was it then that I could see a monster in him as easily as I could see his dignity, his integrity, and his charm? I had learned over the years that he held everything in for as long as he could. When he reached his limit, unrelated incidents could unleash that pent-up anger to an unprecedented degree.

Husbands are always angry, that's their nature. And the nature of us women, is not to pay a blind bit of notice.

I almost feel bad for declining, but I feel more terrible that I can’t stop looking at how his chest rises and falls with each of his frustrated breaths.

I am angry. It is illegal for me to be angry. Remember: Don't get angry. It is illegal to be a black man and be angry. Right. Got it. I will remember this next time.

I am Angel. I am demon. I am woman. I am heaven and hell rolled into one. Kiss me passionately, let me taste your desire, feed my soul and your heaven becomes mine... Beget a maelstrom, feel the abyss shudder. hear the wails of anguish and my hell becomes yours...

I am an immortal Experiencer. Does that changed my life,no but it changed the way I Experience life.

I am back home by a riverbank and I am happy and I still lover her. My secret is that I still love her. This isn't a story about war. It's about ruin.

I am far from a perfect dad. And I always will be. But I’m a damn good dad, and my son will always feel bigger than anything life can throw at him. Why? Because I get it. I get the power a dad has in a child’s life, and in a child’s level of self-belief. I get that everything I ever do and ever say to my son will be absorbed, for good or for bad.