Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.
There are few better measures of the concern a society has for its individual members and its own well being than the way it handles criminals.
Civilization is maintained by a very few people in a small number of places and we need only some bombs and a few prisons to blot it out altogether.
Prison makes you a better judge of character. You pick up on people much faster.
Any punishment that does not correct, that can merely rouse rebellion in whoever has to endure it, is a piece of gratuitous infamy which makes those who impose it more guilty in the eyes of humanity, good sense and reason, nay a hundred times more guilty than the victim on whom the punishment is inflicted.
Organized crime in America takes in over forty billion dollars a year. This is quite a profitable sum, especially when one considers that the Mafia spends very little for office supplies.
Kill a man, and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone, and you are a God.
Written laws are like spiders' webs, and will, like them, only entangle and hold the poor and weak, while the rich and powerful will easily break through them.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
Educate your children to self-control, to the habit of holding passion and prejudice and evil tendencies to an upright and reasoning will, and you have done much to abolish misery from their future lives and crimes to society.
In prisons, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.
Justice is justice though it's always delayed and finally done only by mistake.
The only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear.
America is the land of the second chance – and when the gates of the prison open, the path ahead should lead to a better life.
I wrote a million words in the first year, and I could never have done that outside of prison.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky.