The real violence, the violence that I realized was unforgivable, is the violence that we do to ourselves, when we’re too afraid to be who we really are.
People who get violent get that way because they can’t communicate.
In all the world, violent men are the easiest to deal with.
Violence makes violence, makes nothing much at all.
Violence is a disease. You don’t cure a disease by spreading it to more people.
“These violent delights have violent ends.”[Romeo and Juliet: Act 2, Scene 6]
At its heart, violence is almost always, in one way or another, personal.
Violence is discouraged but not prohibited.
Violence changes things.
Violence begets violence. It just doesn’t always look the same. Some suffer in silence, desperate to escape their pain. Some of us do violence to ourselves. Some try to break the pattern.
There’s always a need for violence.
The instinct of violence curls inside us like a parasite, waiting for a chance to feed on our rage and multiply until it bursts out of us.
