Best 382 quotes in «escape quotes» category

The Corrupt Officer has a Price and the Honest Officer has Integrity

The doors of the darkest room one had ever seen were opened and everyone was asked to collect the pieces of themselves that they have lost with time all these years. Everyone rushed in and started searching for the pieces that would complete them but all of a sudden they saw the light in the room fading away, they turned around and saw the doors closing back again. They screamed and tried to run back but all of a sudden there were fences all around them, they lost their voice and helplessly stuck in there saw the doors closing. They lost themselves completely in the quest of searching the pieces they had lost before.

The hills and mountains on your ways are going to be removed. But remember that’s what should happen when God gives you the shovel. Use your gifts; it’s the escape route!

The honest, sincere and a sober one's promise stays beyond the escape since it proves its reality.

The human desire to “escape” is simply a desire to unlock parts of the brain which are mainly unused and inaccessible during sober times.

The hurts from my last day with my father are healed now, but I want to remember where they were; I want to remember what I escaped for as long as I live.

Then from those profound slumbers we awake in a dawn, not knowing who we are, being nobody, newly born, ready for anything, the brain emptied of that past which was life until then. And perhaps it is more wonderful still when our landing at the waking-point is abrupt and the thoughts of our sleep, hidden by a cloak of oblivion, have no time to return to us gradually, before sleep ceases. Then, from the black storm through which we seem to have passed (but we do not even say we), we emerge prostrate, without a thought, a we that is void of content.

The land is thirsty. People are thirsty. But only blood will bring back the rain.

The last great escape. I was done gambling, done betting on a ship that would never come in. I would cash in my chips while I was ahead. I didn't want to suffer the growing old, didn't want to wait until my memory went. It was all so tiresome. I would just go out in a blaze of glory before the parasites of sadness got at me and made me bitter. After that's the American way: take your own life before everything else takes it from you.

The late 1920s were an age of islands, real and metaphorical. They were an age when Americans by thousands and tens of thousands were scheming to take the next boat for the South Seas or the West Indies, or better still for Paris, from which they could scatter to Majorca, Corsica, Capri or the isles of Greece. Paris itself was a modern city that seemed islanded in the past, and there were island countries, like Mexico, where Americans could feel that they had escaped from everything that oppressed them in a business civilization. Or without leaving home they could build themselves private islands of art or philosophy; or else - and this was a frequent solution - they could create social islands in the shadow of the skyscrapers, groups of close friends among whom they could live as unconstrainedly as in a Polynesian valley, live without moral scruples or modern conveniences, live in the pure moment, live gaily on gin and love and two lamb chops broiled over a coal fire in the grate. That was part of the Greenwich Village idea, and soon it was being copied in Boston, San Francisco, everywhere.

The one thing that we need to escape is our minds, but our minds are the one thing that we cannot escape from.

The one who merely flees is not yet free. In fleeing he is still conditioned by that from which he flees.

The problem with escaping is that we leave behind us, even among those we love, different versions of the truth and everything we couldn’t bring ourselves to say.

The only thing better than escaping from the world is to realize you were never in it.

The only way to truly help most drug addicts and most alcoholics is to—instead of them—change reality.

There’s no magical healing in this. I won’t wake up tomorrow fixed and joyful. I’ll still hurt and grieve. But moments like this, with Colton? They make it all bearable. He doesn't fix me, doesn't heal me. He just makes life worthwhile. He helps me remember to breathe, shows me how to smile again. He kisses me, and I can forget pain, forget the urges I still have to cut for the pain that erases the emotions.

There is no escape for me now, I know. Everything is over. I had my run. I was a murderer, a beautiful one, but I lived in a house of cards all my life and now it's all coming back to punish me, and there is no escape.

There is no escape from me, not even in death.

There is no such thing as escape after all, only an exchange of one set of difficulties for another. It wasn't Mark or the farm or marriage I was trying to shake loose from but my own imperfect self, and even if I kept moving, she would dog me all the way around the world, forever.

There's nowhere else to escape to ... Except in a wooden box, that is.

There's only one way to escape the madness of life, and that is to enjoy it.

There’s two ways to go in this life. You can try to rise above it, overpower it, with meditation, exercise, and purity. Or you can take the easier route, something to help you along the way, such as alcohol and drugs. Either way, you overpower and escape the problem, humanity.

There is only one escape from the madness of this world, and that is to enjoy it.

There're twenty-four hours in every day. Isn't there enough reality in that so we can put a small portion of time aside for wishing?

There’s one last reason why none of us ever tries to escape. There are a few of us who just don’t have anywhere else to go.

There, too, she would sit for hours gazing seawards. No tiniest speck of sail that crossed the waters could escape her watchful eyes, and as she watched she dreamed that some day one of these distant sails should bear down towards her, and one should come, in whose hand she would lay her own, and they two would flee to the far East. But as the changeless years went by and brought him not, the girl grew sullen, and a sense of wrong possessed her, for the older she grew, the clearer became her consciousness of a world beyond her, and the greater her longing to seek it. ("The Serpent's Head")

...there was one thing she would think about when she was high, one thing she would feel: that she was transparent, not invisible, but transparent. But this was the thing: she wasn’t see- through, she wasn’t transparent to light like glass or air, she was transparent to the dark. She said that’s what heroin did, it brought her down to the seafloor, the floor of an ocean trench. Relieved of the need to see, relieved of the need to breathe, she belonged to the darkness completely. It possessed her, moved through her unresisted, as though she herself were made of nothing more than water and darkness, as though she herself were nothing more than a place, a place where the current turned on itself a little and moved on...I said that was it, the big question she carried around in her, the question whether despair was the only way out, whether the only thing she could really make was her escape. That makes sense, she said, just as she said whenever she didn’t agree with my interpretation. But . . . there’s a frustration . . . I want to be clear, perfectly clear. You want to be free to stop hiding things. God, if that’s true, she said with sudden coldness, then all of this is just a load of shit. I knew then that I had overstepped and had ruined something, that I had spooked her and she would make her escape into an anodyne or trivial association. To my surprise, however, she countered and pushed ahead. You are wrong. It’s not that I want to stop hiding. It’s not that I want to come out and say the thing I have to say. Don’t you see? I want there to be nothing. Nothing to hide, and no place to put it. No things, no places. Do you see what I am saying? Can you understand that? Jesus, how could you?

There were days when I still put on make up in case you’d come back, but I wear the same clothes and shower in the rain and eat when I can and sleep when I can, which is rare and not often, so if you’d see me now on these streets where I once imagined walking with you you’d have a hard time recognising me. I takes a lot to run away.

There will be so much more in between. So much uncertainty. I don't know if we'll survive the catacombs, let alone the rest of it. But it doesn't matter. For now, these steps are enough. These first few precious steps into darkness. Into the unknown. Into freedom.

The sky is stained red with the blood of a thousand dying sacrifices.

They knew if they remained in the city for much longer, they would be stuck and eventually run out of food. Their only hope of survival was to leave the city and meet up with the others.

The strongest people are people who faced the toughest situations in life. People who are defeated by the toughest battles are stronger than those who have won by using the escape route!

The veneer of civilization fell away to reveal desperate animals, humanity at their worst.

They drove out of the driveway and onto the road, venturing forth into the horizon, spacious and empty, hanging before them blackly, and offering little else but the promise of the red morning sun.

They lied to her every day saying that she can't fly. And the most painful thing about it was, she believed it till the end.

The things you escape have the ability to catch you, one or other day! Stop running away! Meet them and defeat them!

The use of drugs is not an effective means of facilitating real escape. It merely gives that erroneous and illusive impression. Well, illusive with an I and elusive with an E. At best, narcotics do no more than promote bonhomie and give you a temporary taste of what freedom might be like; and drugs take you into another sub-level of, or sub-culture in, the same old game. The same old game, but with additional consequences. And at worst, well ... suffice it to say that you really, really do not want to go there.

The very thought of him coming so close to tasting you makes me want to split his head in two.

They constantly try to escape From the darkness outside and within By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good. But the man that is will shadow The man that pretends to be.

They’re going to drop a nuke on New York! Hurry up! We need to leave, right now!

They're gone. I let them chase me. I led them like a sunbeam and vanished like a shadow.

Time spent doing whatever it is you do to escape your daily life would be better spent acquiring a life that needs no escape.

This will be the night I escape. The thought repeated in my mind like a refrain, over and over, and I believed it so hard that I whispered it aloud: ‘This will be the night I escape!

Those who believe in the principles of Karma would continue to be law-abiding in every situation, as they know that they can’t escape the laws of Karma. They avoid evil deeds because even if they can avoid punishment in this life—they are sure to suffer for their evil acts in future lives.

Through these uncharted roads, I hope to escape my recollections; I am so tired of seeing signboards, and following the same directions.

Time is not an enemy as such, but a missing person, sending cryptic postcards from the past.

Those for whom the world is not enough: saints, conquerors, poets, and all lovers of books.

To escape the damnation of hell is to accept God’s kingdom

To Cassidy, the panopticon wasn't a metaphor. It was the greatest failing on everything she was, a prison she had built for herself out of an inability to appear anything less than perfect. And so she ghosted on, in relentless pursuit of escape, not from society, but from herself. She would always be confined by what everyone expected of her because she was too afraid and too unwilling to correct our imperfect imaginings.

To evade insanity and depression, we unconsciously limit the number of people toward whom we are sincerely sympathetic.