Best 396 quotes in «hunting quotes» category

Are you prepared then, to shoot a human being?" he asked, trying not to let Jenny sense his own internal unease. "It's not the same as shooting a duck or gazelle." Jenny's violet eyes met his straight on. "If that human being was about to harm any one of us, I'd feel worse about shooting the duck. It, at least, would have done nothing to deserve a bullet.

But it isn't hunger that drives millions of armed American Males to forests and hills every autumn, as the high incidence of heart failure among the hunters will prove. Somehow the hunting process has to do with masculinity, but I don't quite know how.

At the core of the wild is the idea that we must seek, stalk, kill, and haul our prey home to feed our young. It was a right of passage for young men for generations – to get that first kill. To take the life of an animal, and to learn that our life depends on the life of another. I understand that there are some that don’t eat meat -but don’t think for a minute that you aren’t still killing SOMETHING when you pluck that carrot out of its dirty ground! Our cultured and shiny environment now doesn’t require people to get their hands dirty. If you go to the store to buy meat, you buy meat. You don’t see the beating heart, the twitching nerves, or the cold stare left behind by the animal that gave its flesh for you

Because I am, just as you are you. We don’t always get to pick who we are, Shelly Wynn, but we can choose to celebrate it.

Coyote hunting can't be justified on the basis of the damage they do. Shooting coyotes is really just fun, a man with a high-powered rifle trying to see if he can kill a frightened creature that can't shoot back.

Cerise! Come and kiss me, you red haired harpy,” Izrayl bellowed. She smiled and moved to kiss his stubbly cheek. He held her tight and squeezed. “How goes it Old Dog,” Cerise said fondly to her temporary captor. “Still alive,” he grinned salaciously at her. “And still young enough to learn some new tricks if you are the one doing the teaching.” “Try it and I will neuter you,” Cerise threatened and tugged on his braid. “You dogs, all you think of is hunting, fighting and fucking.” “What else is there?” Izrayl growled in the back of his throat and raised an eyebrow at her suggestively.

Du grumme Søe-Konge, du Trold i det Vand, Hvad driver dig til, at du render paa Land, Og lader godvillig dig slagte.

Finding a soulmate is an easy adventure, but the difficult part admist the game is finding your kind of person.

Her var ey at tøve, den Hane blev spendt, En gloende Kuule hen venlig forsendt Den skind-klæde Skolt bag sit Øre; Det smaget ham ligesom nye-smeltet Bly, De andre hans Grander begyndte at flye, Vil Selskab der længer ey giøre.

He's a man," Themla said. "I guess that explains it." "Hairy, Neanderthalic," Thelma said, "perpetually half-crazed from excessive levels of testosterone, plagued by racial memories of the lost glory of mammoth-hunting expeditions - they're all alike.

Before hurting an animal, feel her pain and see her tears. Then question your conscience.

Hunting, works for conservation like slavery works for economic growth. A guaranteed but morally awful way to achieve a goal.

Hunting was a crucial part of humans' survival 100,000 years ago, but today hunting is now nothing more than a violent form of recreation.

Hunting animals is not a wildlife or environmental management solution. Why should anyone spend money to protect an animal that a wealthy trophy hunter can then pay to go kill?

I like to see the people arriving. I like to imagine their lives. It keeps me from thinking too much about my own. A man shouldn't be too introspective. It weakens him. That is the difference between Tennessee Williams and Ernest Hemingway. I'm a Hemingway man myself although I don't believe it is right to hunt lions.

If everyone was cognizant of their purpose on earth, we would only need weapons for hunting and nothing else.

If everyone in nature were too talented not to be hunted by others, everyone would starve!

In a werewolf pack, you cannot interfere with the mate choice of a clan fellow. You cannot intentionally harm that werewolf’s chosen mate. You are not, however, required to help that person should he find himself in a life - threatening situation. Somehow, Zeb had managed to stumble into several such situations in the few months since he ’d been engaged to Jolene. He’d had several hunting “accidents” while visiting the McClaine farm, even though he didn’t hunt. The brakes on his car had failed while he was driving home from the farm—twice. Also, a running chainsaw mysteriously fell on him from a hayloft. He would never get that pinkie toe back.

I’m afraid they’re not coming.” Abby said fearfully. “Our parents, our teachers – everyone! They’ve disappeared. That’s it. Lights out, Shelly. We’re on our own.

I've never really learned how to do this. When we hunted, we had people to take care of what we caught." "I thought you hunted with birds." "We did." "So the birds caught the animals, other people cleaned them... When you say 'hunting,' do you really mean 'going for a walk'?

Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.

Modern life conceals our need for diverse, wild, natural communities, but it does not alter that need.. if you want to feel what it is like to be human again, you should hunt, even if just once. Because that understanding, I believe, will propel a shift in how we view and interact with this world that we eat in. And the kind of food we demand, as omnivores, will never be the same.

I had this dream about you. We went hunting up in the mountains and I caught a unicorn. You told me now I know how it feels to be you.

In the field of business, you are a hunter. For sure you will not be successful all the time when you go hunting. However, there is the potential that you can have a bumper harvest one day that can turn your life around. It is better to live an unexpected life than to live a life of expectation. Pursue your dream today.

It came to him that he had turned away from the buffalo not because of a womanish nausea at blood and stench and spilling gut; it came to him that he had sickened and turned away because of his shock at seeing the buffalo, a few moments before proud and noble and full of the dignity of life, now stark and helpless, a length of inert meat, divested of itself, or his notion of its self, swinging grotesquely, mockingly, before him. It was not itself; or it was not that self that he had imagined it to be. That self was murdered; and in that murder he had felt the destruction of something within him, and he had not been able to face it. So he had turned away.

It’s no big deal. It’s kind of like a tattoo. It won’t hurt, not too much, just a few stitches and it’ll be all over. It’s really interesting how it’s done. You won’t believe where your soul hides. Go on, take a guess. Where do you think it is?

I’ve heard this sound before, she realized, her entire body tingling. She’d caught glimpses of it, like a distant haunting refrain, in her deepest moments of silence in the wood. When the long days stretched timelessly on, and her mind emptied of thoughts until there was only her footsteps in the snow, only the feel of the bow in her hand, the bite of cold on her cheeks. When everything else faded away, this sound was what was left.

I will always look for what my eyes cain’t see.

Look through the heavy pine forest and see a fire glowing. Beside it sits a bear of a man, knife in one hand, a clay bowl on the ground in front of him. It has been a long time since he last shed blood for his Gods. Tonight would satisfy them a little while longer. The screech of a doomed animal is cut short and the bowl fills with its steaming blood. He puts it on a flat stone by the fire. He cuts his scarred wrist to let his own blood drip into the warming mixture. For many days he has thrown his runes and has had no clear sight. He has marked each one with his blood and still they reveal nothing. A tune starts deep in his gut. It stretches and twists like an unborn child, travelling up like a snake through his chest, setting his bones to shake. He grinds his jaw shut to keep it from escaping as it creeps up his throat. His lips start to vibrate with the tune as it tries to push its way out. The man is well learned in the ways of the song and knows how to control it. The bowl is steaming heavily and he leans over it to breathe in the blood fumes that will give his visions. This man’s name is Vasilli and he is trying to find his brother.

Lydia displays her right hand and instantly bathed the room with a blinding light. It lasted only a moment before it drew back into her palm. “I can fix you if you’re ever broken.

Most people I've met who weren't kind to animal, weren't kind to people either. Kindness is kindness. Simple as that. Barbaric activities such as hunting should be consigned to the history books.

My companions ate the bear. I found I had no appetite.

None of the characters in (the story) were distinguished ones -- not even the lion. He was an old lion, prepared from birth to lose his life rather than to leave it. But he had the dignity of all free creatures, and so he was allowed his moment. It was hardly a glorious moment. The two men who shot him were indifferent as men go, or perhaps they were less than that. At least they shot him without killing him, and then turned the unsconscionable eye of a camera upon his agony. It was a small, a stupid, but a callous crime.

Nothing like gunpowder to get a girl going.

Oblivious of Harlow, for whom they had all a dog's amusedly tolerant contempt for an inefficient human leader, the quintet swept away on the track.

(On Baron von Blixen:) Six feet of amiable Swede and, to my knowledge, the toughest, most durable White Hunter ever to snicker at the fanfare of safari or to shoot a charging buffalo between the eyes while debating whether his sundown drink will be gin or whisky.

(Quoting her friend Tom Black on an amateur hunter's injury:) "Lion, rifles -- and stupidity.

Patches don’t look it, but when attached to your soul they can get pretty heavy. They go over the holes in your soul, like when you patch a sock. When you have a hole in your soul, it’s because you’re hurting from something. I don’t know if you noticed, but that girl had a lot of holes.

Shelly shook her head and made sure she had plenty of space so that she wouldn’t hit anything. As many times before, she kept the hoop close to her waist and then twirled it with small, tight bursts of speed. As the hoop gathered in momentum it started to give off a hum that soon took on a light blue illumination far brighter than the streetlamps. It was so bright, that it lit up the entire backyard.

Murphy's face went through several mutations as he spoke, as if small animals were scurrying about just beneath his skin.

She could spin it between her legs, skip with it, twirl it around her neck and transfer it from one arm to the other. Shelly hooped because she enjoyed it; it calmed her whenever she would have an argument or a bad day at school, and it also allowed her to think. Today, she needed to hoop more than ever.

The death of a real deer at my hands was just a vaporous, remote presence that hovered over the figure of the paper deer forty-five yards away at target six of our archery range, as I tried to hit the heart-lung section marked out in heavy black.

Since they were made by hand, no two long rifles were exactly alike. Granted, the majority might appear very similar to anyone except their rightful owner. But look closer, and each weapon's uniqueness became obvious. Small variations in the wood furniture or the fittings were of course to be expected. Much larger innovations were also common—Sergeant Murphy, for instance, was believed to have had a double-barreled rifle. It was an over-under design, with one barrel above the other. The arrangement would have made it quicker for him to get off a second shot, a key asset in battle as well as hunting.

Somehow her hula hoop had cut into the driver’s side door like the vehicle was made of cheese.

Soon, all the children were chanting it. “No school! No school!

The Beaver is an amphibious creature: by day it lives hidden in rivers, but at night it roams the land, feeding itself with anything that it can find. Now it understands the reason why hunters come after it with such eagerness and impetuosity, and it puts down its head and with its teeth cuts off its testicles and throws them in their path, as a prudent man who, falling into the hands of robbers, sacrifices all that he is carrying, to save his life, and forfeits his possessions by way of ransom. If however it has already saved its life by self-castration and is again pursued, then it stands up and reveals that it offers no ground for their eager pursuit, and releases the hunters from all further exertions, for they esteem its flesh less. Often however Beavers with testicles intact, after escaping as far away as possible, have drawn in the coveted part, and with great skill and ingenuity tricked their pursuers, pretending that they no longer possessed what they were keeping in concealment.

The kill can be likened to male orgasm. Sex is traditionally thought to be over when the man has an orgasm, and the hunt is never so decisively over as it is after a successful kill. As a teacher, I impatiently listened to a young man matter-of-factly defend the importance of hunting because he found the experience “orgasmic.” From his point of view, all that mattered was how exciting and wonderful the experience was for him.

The forest talks but a good hunter only hears it by learning its language.

The least appealing part of the day, though, was definitely lunch. Our shepherd had decided that the finest specialty of the area was armadillo, and there wasn't a single Sunday that his wife failed to cook us up an armadillo—but only after clubbing the critter to death before our eyes.

The mind can be hunted, but hunting needs the mind.