A variety in punishment is of utility, as well as a proportion.
There's no greater threat to our independence, to our cherished freedoms and personal liberties than the continual, relentless injection of these insidious poisons into our system. We must decide whether we cherish independence from drugs, without which there is no freedom.
Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, Its own avenging angel--dark misgiving, An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.
So justice while she winks at crimes, Stumbles on innocence sometimes.
He who profits by a crime commits it.
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.
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.
No obligation to justice does force a man to be cruel, or to use the sharpest sentence.
Well does Heaven have care that no man secures happiness by crime.
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.
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?
Hard cases, it is said, make bad law.
I existed in a world that never is - the prison of the mind.
There is no peace because the making of peace is at least as costly as the making of war - at least as exigent, at least as disruptive, at least as liable to bring disgrace and prison and death in its wake.
The reformative effect of punishment is a belief that dies hard, chiefly I think, because it is so satisfying to our sadistic impulses.
By noiselessly going to a prison a civil-resister ensures a calm atmosphere.
Crimes generally punish themselves.
The mellow sweetness of pumpkin pie off a prison spoon is something you will never forget.
Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.
Well, I don't think prisons are the answer to everything, obviously.
It was only when I lay there on the rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good. Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not between states nor between social classes nor between political parties, but right through every human heart, through all human hearts. And that is why I turn back to the years of my imprisonment and say, sometimes to the astonishment of those about me, bless you, prison, for having been a part of my life.
The only difference between me and my fellow actors is that I've spent more time in jail.
One man meets an infamous punishment for that crime which confers a diadem upon another.
Women now have choices. They can be married, not married, have a job, not have a job, be married with children, unmarried with children. Men have the same choice we've always had: work, or prison.
I am an expert of electricity. My father occupied the chair of applied electricity at the state prison.
