Best 2450 quotes in «anger quotes» category

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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 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.

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 coming through the barriers you have erected in this mind. I am coming, though the way be ardous and strange. Nothing will stop me. As I travel, I admire the craftsmanship in the construction of this maze, admire the traps and pitfalls they have wrought. You have learned well, my servants. To force the child to construct these barriers insides its mind, in its effort to escape the physical world; to build an island of dream alone and untouched by the true Dreaming... This takes skill. My admiration does not lessen my anger. I am dream. I am coming.

I am content to say that caught as I was, without rescuers as I was in that moment, there was a fierce, dark fury moving through me, wave upon wave, like the sea itself, that was bizarrely a comfort. My face maybe showing only a shadow of it, as faces will . . . Rage, dark rage, lightened by nothing.

i am in need of a sudden Shift, Your crimson lips. screaming at my Lips. Let me hold down That candle, and look away from Your light, The sight of You, everlasting, Melting in on my eyes. I see Your lips dripping roses, bleeding need all the night, Let me embrace You with touch, Let me love You all the night. I crave the crimson of Your lips, till they burn me out all white, Kiss me Deep under the ocean, Of a never-ending fire.

I am much fucking angrier than you think.

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

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 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.

I am determined not to spread news that I do not know to be certain and not to utter words that can cause division or discord.