When I was in prison, I was wrapped up in all those deep books. That Tolstoy crap - people shouldn't read that stuff.
And while God had work for Paul, he found him friends both in court and prison. Let persecutors send saints to prison, God can provide a keeper for their turn.
Corporal punishment falls far more heavily than most weighty pecuniary penalty.
Kill a man, and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone, and you are a God.
I am an expert of electricity. My father occupied the chair of applied electricity at the state prison.
They're not supposed to show prison films in prison. Especially ones that are about escaping.
Prisons don't rehabilitate, they don't punish, they don't protect, so what the hell do they do?
I just remember that disturbing feeling of walking into that prison, the complete loss of privacy, the complete loss of stimulation, dignity.
The object of punishment is prevention from evil; it never can be made impulsive to good.
Money will determine whether the accused goes to prison or walks out of the courtroom a free man.
The contagion of crime is like that of the plague. Criminals collected together corrupt each other; they are worse than ever when at the termination of their punishment they re-enter society.
If punishment reaches not the mind and makes not the will supple, it hardens the offender.
I never told a victim story about my imprisonment. Instead, I told a transformation story - about how prison changed my outlook, about how I saw that communication, truth, and trust are at the heart of power.
Everyone is a prisoner of his own experiences. No one can eliminate prejudices - just recognize them.
In jail a man has no personality. He is a minor disposal problem and a few entries on reports. Nobody cares who loves or hates him, what he looks like, what he did with his life. Nobody reacts to him unless he gives trouble. Nobody abuses him. All that is asked of him is that he go quietly to the right cell and remain quiet when he gets there. There is nothing to fight against, nothing to be mad at. The jailers are quiet men without animosity or sadism.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky.
No man survives when freedom fails. The best men rot in filthy jails, and those who cry 'appease, appease' are hanged by those they tried to please.