Attempted Robbery Quotes

Jonah McAllister regarded me with cold eyes. "Oh, yes. That's her. The lovely Ms.Gin Blanco. The bitch who was giving my boy a hard time. A hard time? I supposed so, if you thought turning him in to the cops for attempted robbery, breaking a plate full of food in his face, and ultimately stabbing Jake McAllister to death was a hard time.

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by the twopenny post, a day or two previous.

No crime is confounding and punitive the way rape is. No other violent offense comes with a built-in alibi that can instantly exonerate the criminal and place responsibility on the victim. There is no glorified interpersonal behavior that can be used to explain robbery or murder the way that sex can be used to explain rape. The best-case scenario for a rape victim in terms of adjudication is the worst-case scenario in terms of experience: for people to believe you deserve justice, you have to be destroyed. The fact that feminism is ascendant and accepted does not change this. The world that we believe in, that we're attempting to make real and tangible, is still not the world that exists.

How does a writer, a novelist, shock his readers by telling them that these are neo-slaves when they themselves, the neo-slaves, are openly announcing the fact on the rooftops? How do you shock your readers by pointing out that these are mass murderers, looters, robbers, thieves, when they, the perpetrators of these anti-people crimes, aren’t even attempting to hide the fact? When in some cases they are actually and proudly celebrating their massacre of children, and the theft and robbery of the nation? How do you satirise their utterances and claims when their own words beat all fictional exaggerations?

Usually when we think about violence, we think about interpersonal forms of violence, such as attempted murder or homicide, assault and battery, rape and sexual assault, robbery, kidnapping, and torture. Rarely do we think of suicide, anorexia, and self-flaggelation, or of verbal abuse, threats, and intimidation as forms of interpersonal violence.

Of losing that which I have come to realise I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you—in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. You are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.” I swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. “I am not that bad,” I managed hoarsely. “No,” he said with a slow smile. “You are not bad at all. If I could have created—as Eliza Elyot attempted to—a perfect woman, I could never have imagined you. But that is my failure. Not yours.

Happiness is not to be achieved at the command of emotional whims. Happiness is not the satisfaction of whatever irrational wishes you might blindly attempt to indulge. Happiness is a state of non-contradictory joy-a joy without penalty or guilt, a joy that does not clash with any of your values and does not work for your own destruction, not the joy of escaping from your mind, but of using your mind’s fullest power, not the joy of faking reality, but of achieving values that are real, not the joy of a drunkard, but of a producer. Happiness is possible only to a rational man, the man who desires nothing but rational goals, seeks nothing but rational values and finds his joy in nothing but rational actions. “Just as I support my life, neither by robbery nor alms, but by my own effort, so I do not seek to derive my happiness from the injury or the favor of others, but earn it by my own achievement. Just as I do not consider the pleasure of others as the goal of my life, so I do not consider my pleasure as the goal of the lives of others. Just as there are no contradictions in my values and no conflicts among my desires-so there are no victims and no conflicts of interest among rational men, men who do not desire the unearned and do not view one another with a cannibal’s lust, men who neither make sacrifice nor accept them.

Is there a meaning in history? I do not wish to enter here into the problem of the meaning of ‘meaning’; I take it for granted that most people know with sufficient clarity what they mean when they speak of the ‘meaning of history’ or of the ‘meaning or purpose of life’10. And in this sense, in the sense in which the question of the meaning of history is asked, I answer: History has no meaning. In order to give reasons for this opinion, I must first say something about that ‘history’ which people have in mind when they ask whether it has meaning. So far, I have myself spoken about ‘history’ as if it did not need any explanation. That is no longer possible; for I wish to make it clear that ‘history’ in the sense in which most people speak of it simply does not exist; and this is at least one reason why I say that it has no meaning. How do most people come to use the term ‘history’? (I mean ‘history’ in the sense in which we say of a book that it is about the history of Europe—not in the sense in which we say that it is a history of Europe.) They learn about it in school and at the University. They read books about it. They see what is treated in the books under the name ‘history of the world’ or ‘the history of mankind’, and they get used to looking upon it as a more or less definite series of facts. And these facts constitute, they believe, the history of mankind. But we have already seen that the realm of facts is infinitely rich, and that there must be selection. According to our interests, we could, for instance, write about the history of art; or of language; or of feeding habits; or of typhus fever (see Zinsser’s Rats, Lice, and History). Certainly, none of these is the history of mankind (nor all of them taken together). What people have in mind when they speak of the history of mankind is, rather, the history of the Egyptian, Babylonian, Persian, Macedonian, and Roman empires, and so on, down to our own day. In other words: They speak about the history of mankind, but what they mean, and what they have learned about in school, is the history of political power. There is no history of mankind, there is only an indefinite number of histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world. But this, I hold, is an offence against every decent conception of mankind. It is hardly better than to treat the history of embezzlement or of robbery or of poisoning as the history of mankind. For the history of power politics is nothing but the history of international crime and mass murder (including, it is true, some of the attempts to suppress them). This history is taught in schools, and some of the greatest criminals are extolled as its heroes.

A deep-seated ambivalence has always characterized the official response to the political prisoner. Charged and tried for the criminal act, his guilt is always political in nature. This ambivalence is perhaps best captured by Judge Webster Thayer’s comment upon sentencing Bartolomeo Vanzetti to fifteen years for an attempted payroll robbery: “This man, although he may not have actually committed the crime attributed to him, is nevertheless morally culpable, because he is an enemy of our existing institutions.” (The very same judge incidentally, sentences Sacco and Vanzetti3 to death for a robbery and murder of which they were manifestly innocent.)4 It is not surprising that Nazi Germany’s foremost constitutional lawyer, Carl Schmitt, advanced the theory which generalized this a priori culpability. A thief, for example, was not necessarily one who had committed an overt act of theft, but rather one whose character renders him a thief (wer nach seinem wesen ein Dieb ist).

During this attempted robbery, the victim, who holds a concealed weapons permit, pulled out his weapon and fired shots into the bad guy,’ said Orange County Sheriff’s Office Commander Paul Hopkins. . . . For the bad guys out there, you never know who you’re dealing with,’ Hopkins said. ‘When you go out to commit this crime, you might be the one who’s lying dead in the parking lot.’”83

Many aspects of the Crutti, Rissetto, Davi, and Sciambra (and later the Andollina and Maggio) attacks were similar: targeting a successful grocery and bar in an unfashionable, isolated part of the city (the Sciambra grocery was less than a mile from the Crutti place) and breaking in during the dead of night. Robbery was never the motive. The assailant usually targeted the man first, if he attacked the woman at all. Harriet Crutti, Mary Davi, and Anna Andollina escaped relatively unscathed. Only Joseph and Conchetta Rissetto were attacked with equal ferocity. And perhaps Catherine Maggio wouldn’t have died if she hadn’t attempted to defend her husband.

HM Belmarsh prison, or Hellmarsh as the inmates call it, is a category A prison situated in the South East of London. The prison service manual states that Category A prisoners are: “Those whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public or national security. Offenses that may result in consideration for Category A or Restricted Status include: Attempted murder, Manslaughter, Wounding with intent, Rape, Indecent assault, Robbery or conspiracy to rob (with firearms), Firearms offences, Importing or supplying Class A controlled drugs, Possessing or supplying explosives, Offenses connected with terrorism and Offeses under the Official Secrets Act.” In other words, Belmarsh prison is filled with some very bad people. But there is nothing to worry about. Belmarsh is a state of the art facility. High walls, well-trained guards and a system of electronically controlled Mag-locks that secure every door on every cell. Even in the event of an EMP or similar power outage there is a hardened back up battery that keeps the cells secure. The batteries last for sixteen hours. Or until 10:00 am in the morning. It is now 10:01 am. Belmarsh houses approximately eight hundred and eighty inmates. Or, to put it more correctly - Belmarsh used to hold eight hundred and eighty inmates.

In December 1882, “Old Chris” Baker had his cover blown. He was arrested, along with several white medical students, for attempted grave robbery at two African American cemeteries—Oakwood and Sycamore. The arrests were cheered by the Virginia Star, a black-owned publication with Republican ties. The news account focused more on the role of Baker as a traitor to his people than to the mendacity of the white MCV students.

I cannot live without you. For to attempt to do so would be to rob both of us of each other, and that is thievery of the greatest sort.

60--30. Weird Laws -- New Jersy 01. It is against the law to sell handcuffs to a person under 18 years of age. [Source: Sec. 2C:39-9.2] 02. It is against the law to wear a bullet-proof vest while engaged in the commission of, or an attempt to commit, or flight after committing or attempting to commit murder, manslaughter, robbery, burglary, kidnapping, criminal escape, or assault. [Source: Sec. 2C:39-13]

How vice and wickedness, injustice and every human passion runs riot, flourishes, oftentimes going unpunished to the tomb! And how the little feeble sickly attempts of virtue struggle, and after a brief while fade away, unappreciated and unextolled! The depravity of the human heart is truly wonderful, and the moiety of virtue contained on the historic page truly deplorable. If she found any consolation in her readings, it was only to know how often “these same sorrows and unmerited punishments that we are now undergoing [have] been visited upon the brave, the deserving, the heroic, and the patient of all ages and in all climes!” Returning to the history that was being acted out in her own household, she bemoaned the abolition of slavery as “a most unprecedented robbery,” intended only for the “greater humiliation” of the southern people. “However, it is done,” she sighed;

Against all logic and reason, CHAZ was allowed by the city (of Seattle) to run its course for more than three weeks. It was a large-scale experiment in anarchy, chaos, and brute-force criminality...There were numerous assaults, robberies, an attempted rape, six shootings, and two homicides...A movement that has border abolishment at the core of its ideology immediately set up its own border to keep out outsiders...While CHAZ was ostensibly created to be an explicitly ‘anti-racist’ zone, it ended up segregating along racial lines… Despite claiming to be a refuge for blacks from white racists, CHAZ ended up with a 100 percent black victim shooting rate (two unarmed young black males). “As much as CHAZ was an experiment in anarchy and chaos, it was also a successful experiment in propaganda making. What journalists were allowed to record was heavily controlled by the residents there...CHAZ supporters were not interested in reality. They wanted the media to broadcast to the world a fabricated utopia… “Despite claiming to be an ‘autonomous zone,’ CHAZ was a welfare state parasitizing off Seattle taxpayers.

Robbery attempt at petrol pump in Lakhimpur failed; miscreants escape from spot Guwahati: Believe it or not, the pandemic and subsequent night curfew in the state has given rise to crimes like theft, robbery, and assault on women and children.

Judge Nelson announced he’d found enough incriminating evidence to hold Ramirez over for trial. Because of the multiple murder counts Ramirez could face the death penalty. The judge read into the record all the counts: fourteen murders, five attempted murders, fifteen burglaries, five robberies, four rapes, three acts of oral copulation, and four acts of sodomy. The attacks were on sixteen different L.A. households, between June 27, 1984 (Vincow) and August 8, 1985 (the Abowaths). While the judge read the counts in a factual, dispassionate way, Richard sat low in his seat and looked forward as all eyes in the courtroom focused on the back of his head.

And if I don’t?” Conlan squinted at Ascanio. “Will you try to put me in your special basement?” One of the boudas chuckled and choked it off before Ascanio could glare at him. “This doesn’t concern you,” Ascanio said, his voice harsh. “I’ll decide what concerns me.” Conlan rested his elbow on his knee and plopped his chin on his fist. “Don’t worry. I won’t get in your way. Please go on with your attempted extortion, robbery, and kidnapping scheme. I just want to see how it all turns out.

The recent shift in the broader social understanding of sexual assault has been so dramatic and so overdue that it has obscured the fact that our systems still mostly fail on this particular topic—that, as demonstrated by the Kafkaesque Title IX bureaucracy, these systems are unequal to a crime that our culture actively manufactures. No crime is confounding and punitive the way rape is. No other violent offense comes with a built-in alibi that can instantly exonerate the criminal and place responsibility on the victim. There is no glorified interpersonal behavior that can be used to explain robbery or murder the way that sex can be used to explain rape. The best-case scenario for a rape victim in terms of adjudication is the worst-case scenario in terms of experience: for people to believe you deserve justice, you have to be destroyed. The fact that feminism is ascendant and accepted does not change this. The world that we believe in, that we’re attempting to make real and tangible, is still not the world that exists.

So much went wrong there, however. Its avatar was shot in an attempted robbery. Before the birth; indeed, before I even arrived. Pure bad luck, I thought—but then the hospital mishandled her chart and nearly killed her in surgery, and then they turned her out before she was fully recuperated because she was indigent…” He shakes his head, muttering in Cantonese about barbaric American health care for a moment before resuming English. “I gave her a place to stay, but she had no strength when the city tried to rise, and the Enemy came. The levees broke after she died, and rather than help, your media and incompetent leadership compounded the catastrophe at every turn.” Then his frown deepens. “But if the Enemy was at work there, interfering somehow even before the city chose

Engels wrote to Marx, as he was working on the book: ‘At the bar of world opinion, I charge the English middle classes with mass murder, wholesale robbery and all the other crimes in the calendar.’23 That just about sums up the book: it was the case for the prosecution. A great deal of the book, including all the examination of the pre-capitalist era and the early stages of industrialization, was based not on primary sources but on a few secondary sources of dubious value, especially Peter Gaskell’s The Manufacturing Population of England (1833), a work of Romantic mythology which attempted to show that the eighteenth century had been a golden age for English yeomen and craftsmen. In fact, as the Royal Commission on Children’s Employment of 1842 conclusively demonstrated, working conditions in the small, pre-capitalist workshops and cottages were far worse than in the big new Lancashire cotton mills. Printed primary sources used by Engels were five, ten, twenty, twenty-five or even forty years out of date, though he usually presents them as contemporary. Giving figures for the births of illegitimate babies attributed to night-shifts, he omitted to state that these dated from 1801. He quoted a paper on sanitation in Edinburgh without letting his readers know it was written in 1818. On various occasions he omitted facts and events which invalidated his out-of-date evidence completely.

Montalbano dawdled about the office until lunchtime. By the time he went out he was dying of boredom. How was it possible that there weren’t any more serious robberies, shootouts, or attempted murders? Had they all become saints

I have, at last, come to understand my role. It is not to discourage your exuberance or your audacity. How could I want to when those are the very qualities I admire most? If I have lectured or harangued in the past, it is because I am afraid. Every moment of every day I am afraid." "Afraid of what?" I demanded. "Of losing that which I have come to realize I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you - in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. You are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.” I swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. “I am not that bad,” I managed hoarsely. “No,” he said with a slow smile. “You are not bad at all. If I could have created - as Eliza Elyot attempted to - a perfect woman, I could never have imagined you. But that is my failure. Not yours.” It was some time before I was mistress enough of my emotions to speak. "Only one man in a thousand - ten thousand - would have answered me as you have just done." [some text redacted] Stoker ignored it as he rose and pulled me to my feet. "Only one woman in ten thousand would have deserved that answer.

Furnace. “Yes, ma’am,” said Ferris again. “Did she do that to your hair?” said Miss Furnace. There had been so much going on—failing hearts and talking ghosts, dead husbands and stolen pliers, police reports and attempted bank robberies—that Ferris had forgotten about her hair. She put a hand up and touched its frizzy strangeness. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “She did.” “It looks ridiculous,” said Miss Furnace. “Ma’am,” said Billy Jackson in an extremely polite voice, “what we need is forty taper candles.” “No one needs forty taper candles,” said Miss Furnace. “We do,” said Ferris. “Charisse does.” “Charisse,” said Miss Furnace. She said the name the way a snake might say it if a snake owned a dime store and could speak. “You may tell Charisse that the world, much as she supposes it to be, is not her oyster.” “Okay,” said Ferris, even though she wasn’t sure what Miss Furnace was talking about. Ferris’s father had said to her that day six years ago when they sat eating their grilled cheese sandwiches in Furnace Dime that there were some people who were reluctant to step foot in the great river of life. He had nodded in the direction of Miss Furnace. “These people,” he said, “are afraid to love. Loving someone takes a whole lot of courage. Some people just aren’t up to the task.