Best 79 quotes in «thief quotes» category

At that level through out the 18th century, another vision of admirable behavior persisted. The mob did not want the smooth conformable man, the slick hypocrite who could so politely maneuver his way into the rewards of high politics and high society. They wanted his very opposite, the clever thief. The man who thrived not by using the well oiled wheels of society but by opposing them and cheating them; by attending to the well-being of his own heroic self.

Avarice is opposed to nobility. It believes that by robbing many of all they have, that it (greed) is cloaked in the nobility that is the birthmark of the people.

Aprendió el arte vagabundo de los troperos. Aprendió el otro, más difícil, de mandar hombres; ambos lo ayudaron a ser un buen ladrón de hacienda.

A thief might steal from anyone. Why he’s stealing from you is what you need to understand.

A word of advice,” he says, as I stop in his office to say goodbye. “When you’re in love with a woman, you shouldn’t get involved with other women.” “Noted,” I say. “Though, I would like to offer that she is probably sleeping with another man as we speak.

Cash. Pay cash, Theodore. It's safest, unless you keep your wallet where someone can pick your pocket." "I'm going to feel someone sticking their fucking hand in my pocket." He gets in the truck. I open my door and throw him his wallet as I get inside. "I'm not so sure you would.

Dream thieves are those who leave their real dreams aside and struggle to pick other people's dreams to work on. They suffer to do attempt what they can't do,

Does your guilty past catch up so fast with your age? You've been robbing hex nuts, cap nuts, lock nuts and wing nuts. No wonder you have turned into a greedy nut." ~ Angelica Hopes, If I Could Tell You

Cruel people are not only people who kill innocent people with guns. Individuals who steal from government coffers to enrich themselves at the expense of the poor are grossly cruel.

Doubt is a thief of the soul.

Excuses are a time thief. Have a goal, accept responsibility, and take action!

Hair the color of lemons,'" Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. "You told him about me?" At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting. Years ago, when they'd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily assembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death. Of course I told him about you," Liesel said.

Father Brown got to his feet, putting his hands behind him. 'Odd, isn't it,' he said, 'that a thief and a vagabond should repent, when so many who are rich and secure remain hard and frivolous, and without fruit for God or man?

He went through the bills with the jaundiced eye of a China trader, asking himself not whether he had been stolen from, but where the theft had occurred. If he couldn’t find it, that would suggest his factor back home in Shanghai was either cleverer or more honest than he had thought, and Crane didn’t think he was particularly honest.

Having no applicable skills, in any possible area whatsoever, effectively makes me the master of redundancy. But that info is obsolete, like my insults dictionary, which I stole.

He is a liar, a thief, a killer and a cannibal. And he is running for political office! Someone must stop him.

He loved his job. What was advertising, anyway, but a knowledge of people and of which buttons to push to nudge them into opening their wallets? It was, he often though, an accepted, creative, even expected twist on picking those wallets. For a man who had spent the first half of his life as a thief, it was the perfect career.

He finally found someone like him. Someone who shared his abilities, someone who understood what he had to go through every day. And she turned out to be bad. Evil. A murderess and a thief. That hurt more than not knowing if he would ever find someone else out there like him.

Here is a tragicomic reality of all the regimes: People work hard to feed their thief politicians, their thief kings and thief queens or their thief presidents! And therefore the tragicomic reality of all the times is this: There can exist no thieves without the support of people!

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

Hot, bright heat filled him like some ecstatic poison, and Hartan's pony shied in terror as a wordless howl burst from his throat. His dripping ears were flat to his skull, fire crackled in his brown eyes, his huge sword blurred in a whirring figure eight before him, and the brigand running at him gawked in sudden panic. The raider's feet skidded in mud as he tried to brake, but it was far too late. He was face-to-face with the worst nightmare of any Norfressan, a Horse Stealer hradani in the grip of the Rage, and a thunderbolt of steel split him from crown to navel.

How could she ever know that someone would pick her story up and carry it with him everywhere?

I am against justice … whenever it is carried out by a mob.

If a thief and an immoral society finds a thief and an immoral political leader, it will support him to the death!

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

If a politician obtained a great wealth after he has been elected, his being an immoral corrupt man is not a possibility but it is a self-evident reality!

If I did sales - my technique would be to hand-seal each deal with gourmet omelets, by Jarod Kintz's secret invisible recipe that I stole.

I flow like a butter in the nailed pan I stole. I also kept the nail, to polish and use as a means of teleportation.

However this miraculous place worked, it seemed real enough. The sun was hot, the soda was cold, the sky was blue, the grass was green. What more did he need to know?

If you wouldn't invite a thief in your house why would you allow a liar in. the only difference between the two is the thief steals your money and objects the liar steals with words by deceit of manipulation by Bonnie Zackson Koury

I had a dream about you last night... in it, I tried to sell a squirrel a deposit box to store his nuts in. He stole my cashews in the complimentary snack basket.

I jokingly asked if his friends teased him for being a feather thief, but his face clouded at the word thief. “I try to refrain from certain words,” he said. “Thief is one of them. This is going to sound very strange, but I don’t feel like a thief.

I reject ‛poor’ as the artificial creation of humans. Hunger exists, though, and a hungry creature is entitled to eat.

I told them that if someone tells a lie, that person is not *just* a liar. If you take something that does not belong to you, you're not *just* a thief. Even if you kill someone, you're not *just* a killer.

It could have been a thief or a murderer. I considered crying out. A thief would run away, but a murderer would murder me. On the other hand, the murderer would probably murder me if I didn't too. That was his whole thing.

It is impossible for a thief to steal from an empty house.

If there is not folly in the world, then the world itself is folly. You must understand that mistakes are not always regrets.

It was the first time I saw the look on the face of the people I robbed: it was ugly. I was the cause of such ugliness, and the only thing that made me feel was a cruel pleasure which, I thought, was bound to transfigure my own face, to make me resplendent. I was then 23 years old. From that moment on, I felt capable of advancing in cruelty.

Its funny when people recently change their attitude to gain entrance into your heart, which may only ignite your passion to close the door.

Man as a thief cannot enjoy life he can only steal, kill and destroy harmony of society.

Mr Locke...took a long, slender pick from the unrolled bag and, bending over slightly, inserted it into the lock. It was a steel-cased lock with a smooth, brass knob of around three inches wide and a brass plate around the singular keyhole. Mounted into the door frame was another steel fixture, forming the second half of the lock. Recognising the type of lock, Percy knew the key’s function was to throw the lock’s bolt into dead lock, thus securing the door. Such a design would also include an internal, smaller knob sliding back and forth, drawing back the bolt. A snib, jutting out from the case on the internal side of the door, could be compressed to keep the bolt in an open position, thus allowing one to open and close the door freely. “Do be so kind as to keep an eye out for the return of our friend the constable.” Locke pulled his pocket watch out with his other hand to glance upon it. “We have nine minutes.” “This is breaking and entering!” Mr Maxwell cried, hurrying up the steps. “Miss Trent said such was forbidden by the Society.” “Unless there is a sufficiently justifiable reason for doing so,” Mr Locke replied, inserting a second pick into the lower half of the lock. “The welfare of our client is a sufficiently justifiable reason; do you not think so, Mr Maxwell?” “His welfare?” Mr Maxwell enquired, confused. Miss Dexter, wholly fascinated by what the illusionist was doing, stepped closer still. She softly enquired, “Do you suspect some harm may have come to Mr Dorsey, Mr Locke?” “I do not know but Mr Colby was very keen we should not speak with him. Furthermore, Miss Trent’s note stated her telephone conversation with Mr Dorsey was abruptly ended, by him, when another—angry—voice spoke,” Mr Locke explained. There was a sharp click as the bolt sprang back into the lock’s casing. Mr Locke smiled broadly. “Our constable friend is back.” Mr Maxwell looked panic sticken. “It’s only been a minute.” “Ah, that will be the Bow Street police station,” Locke replied as he turned the door knob. “Also, they tend to keep a closer eye upon the more affluent residences; greater targets for thieves, you know,” Mr Locke stated as he pushed the door open and ushered both Mr Maxwell and Miss Dexter inside. He’d just closed the door, after slipping in himself, when the constable reached the bottom of the steps and peered up at the porch. Mr Locke stood to the side of the door and watched as the constable, seemingly satisfied all was well, walked away. A glance down at the internal part of the lock confirmed Mr Locke’s earlier assumptions about it. His slender hand slid the smaller brass knob along to lock the bolt in place once more.

Monsieur, please stay back. You are old and frail, and I would not have you hurt in this clash.

It’s unfair to see managers buying brand new cars for themselves when the salaries of their workers still remain unpaid! Good leaders are not selfish thinkers!

Murphy. Sina mbinu zozote za kujikinga kama unavyojua; mbali na mafunzo ya FBI. Baada ya kumrusha nyoka wa Lisa nywele zilinisisimka. Wazo la kukimbia likaja ghafla. Kukimbia hata hivyo nikashindwa kwa kuhofu huenda wangeniona. Hivyo, nikarudi nyuma ya nyumba na kupanda mti na kujificha huko. Bunduki zilipolia, nilijua wamekuua. Ila kitu kimoja kikanishangaza: mashambulizi hayakuonekana kukoma. Kitu hicho kikanipa nguvu kwamba huenda hujafa na ulikuwa ukipambana nao. Kimya kilipotokea nilijua umewashinda nguvu, kitu ambacho kumbe kilikuwa kweli. Nilipokutafuta baadaye lakini bila kukuona kutokana na kukurukakara za maadui niliamua kwenda katika gari ili nije na gari kama mgeni, nikitegemea waniruhusu kuingia ili nipate hakika kama wamekuua au bado uko hai. Wasingenifanya chochote. Kimaajabu, niliposhuka katika mti ili nikimbie katika gari, niliona gari ikija kwa kasi. Kuangalia vizuri nikakuta ni Ferrari, halafu nikashangaa nani anaendesha gari ya Lisa!” Murphy alitabasamu tena na kuendelea kusikiliza. “Sijui moyo wangu ulikuwaje. Sikuogopa tena! Badala yake nilikaza mwendo na kuendelea kuifuata huku nikipata wazo hapohapo kwamba mtu aliyekuwemo akiendesha hakuwa adui. Adui angeingia katika gari na kunisubiri aniteke nyara.” Debbie alitulia. “Ulihisi ni mimi?” Murphy aliuliza. “Nilihisi ni mtu tu mwema amekuja kunisaidia ... au mwizi wa gari. Hata hivyo, baadaye nilijua ni wewe na furaha yangu yote ilirudi.

Neither the state guards nor the municipal police stopped me. What they saw going by was no longer a man but the curious product of misfortune, something to which laws could not be applied. I had exceeded the bounds of indecency.

Not all generous hearts are gullible enough to be screwed by cold, calculating, business propaganda. A person who has an eye for what is right and the truth will immediately spot the cunning ways of a selfish "user and hungry grabber" who took initiative to grab the originality from other people they tried to profile, fake befriended and extracted favours." ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from If I Could Tell You

Perhaps the House had heard Harvey wishing for a full moon, because when he and Wendell traipsed upstairs and looked out the landing window, there--hanging between the bare branches of the trees--was a moon as wide and as white as a dead man's smile.

Rollins held up his watch chain. A turnip was hanging from the fob where his diamond-studded time piece should have been. "That little bastard--" Then a thought came to him. He reached for his wallet. It was gone. So was his tie pin, the Kaelish coin pendant he wore for luck, and the gold buckles on his shoes. Rollins wondered if he should check the fillings in his teeth. "He picked your pockets?" Doughty asked incredulously. No one got one over on Pekka Rollins. No one dared. But Brekker had, and Rollins wondered if that was just the beginning.

She stood up and took the book from him, and as he smiled over his shoulder at some other kids, she threw it away and kicked him as hard as she could in the vicinity of the groin. Well, as you might imagine, Ludwig Schmeikl certainly buckled, and on the way down, he was punched in the ear. When he landed, he was set upon. When he was set upon, he was slapped and clawed and obliterated by a girl who was utterly consumed with rage. His skin was so warm and soft. Her knuckles and fingernails were so frighteningly tough, despite their smallness. You Saukerl." Her voice, too, was able to scratch him. "You Arschloch. Can you spell Arschloch for me?

Sleep came on him as a thief, consciousness stolen like a forgotten coin from his pocket.