In prisons, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.
The English laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they reward virtue.
The mellow sweetness of pumpkin pie off a prison spoon is something you will never forget.
The torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and 'mangled mind' leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.
Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.
Crime succeeds by sudden despatch; honest counsels gain vigor by delay.
Mere factual innocence is no reason not to carry out a death sentence properly reached.
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.
When I was in prison, I was wrapped up in all those deep books. That Tolstoy crap - people shouldn't read that stuff.
I have been studying how I may compare this prison where I live unto the world; Shut up in the prison of their own consciences.
The worst of prison life, he thought, was not being able to close his door.
Justice is that virtue of the soul which is distributive according to desert.