What restrains us from killing is partly fear of punishment, partly moral scruple, and partly what may be described as a sense of humor.
Kill a man, and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone, and you are a God.
The refined punishments of the spiritual mode are usually much more indecent and dangerous than a good smack.
To seek the redress of grievances by going to law, is like sheep running for shelter to a bramble bush.
The English laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they reward virtue.
It is true you cannot eat freedom and you cannot power machinery with democracy. But then neither can political prisoners turn on the light in the cells of a dictatorship.
Experts and the educated elite have replaced what worked with what sounded good. Society was far more civilized before they took over our schools, prisons, welfare programs, police departments and courts. It's high time we ran these people out of our lives and went back to common sense.
If it's near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has retired, and says: "Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen." "So do I," says everybody else, except two men who ought to have dined at three and seem more than half disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch:--"Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant, gentlemen?
No matter how you seem to fatten on a crime, that can never be good for the bee which is bad for the hive.
Definition, rationality, and structure are ways of seeing, but they become prisons when they blank out other ways of seeing.
The mellow sweetness of pumpkin pie off a prison spoon is something you will never forget.
We who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments.
No written law has been more binding than unwritten custom supported by popular opinion.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky.
Prison continues, on those who are entrusted to it, a work begun elsewhere, which the whole of society pursues on each individual through innumerable mechanisms of discipline.