To my mind, to kill in war is not a whit better than to commit ordinary murder.
The refined punishments of the spiritual mode are usually much more indecent and dangerous than a good smack.
Definition, rationality, and structure are ways of seeing, but they become prisons when they blank out other ways of seeing.
The only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear.
There are dreadful punishments enacted against thieves; but it were much better to make such good provisions, by which every man might be put in a method how to live, and so to be preserved from the fatal necessity of stealing and dying for it.
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.
There is no greater punishment of wickedness that that it is dissatisfied with itself and its deeds.
We have initiated programs for re-entry offenders, since some 500,000 to 600,000 offenders will come out of prison each year for the next three or four years. We want to have positive alternatives when they come back to the community.
No obligation to justice does force a man to be cruel, or to use the sharpest sentence.
Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, Its own avenging angel--dark misgiving, An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.
I have paid no poll-tax for six years. I was put into a jail once on this account, for one night; and, as I stood considering the walls of solid stone, I could not help being struck with the foolishness of that institution which treated me as if I were mere flesh and blood and bones, to be locked up...I saw that, if there was a wall of stone between me and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or break through, before they could get to be as free as I was. I did not for a moment feel confined, and the walls seemed a great waste of stone and mortar.
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrist? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
If you want total security, go to prison. There you’re fed, clothed, given medical care and so on. The only thing lacking…is freedom.