When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.
You can choose your friends but you sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ’em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.
You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.
Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.
You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters – all that matters, really – is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, everpresent consciousness. The rest – women, art, suecess – is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroideries.
You have two choices. you can keep running and hiding and blaming the world for your problems, or you can stand up for yourself and decide to be somebody important.
You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be. Every time you don’t throw yourself down the stairs, that’s a choice. Every time you don’t crash your car, you reenlist.