Riot Novel Quotes

I don’t want to start a riot I don’t want to blaze a trail

I wish I had something reassuring to tell you, but I don’t. It’s not safe out there. People are rioting and looting. There’s no telling what could happen to you, if you went out there. We need to play this safe.

A riot of noise, of traffic, of confusion: this was Havana.

All my parents wanted was the open road and a VW camper van. That was enough escape for them. The ocean, the night sky, some acoustic guitar.. what more could you ask? Well, actually, you could ask to go soaring off the side of a mountain on a snowboard, feeling as if, for one moment you are riding the clouds instead of the snow. You could scour Southeast Asia, like the world weary twenty somethings in Alex Garland’s novel The Beach, looking for the one corner of the globe uncharted by the Lonely Planet to start your own private utopia. You could, for the matter, join a new age cult and dream of alien abduction. From the occult to raves to riots it seems that the eternal urge for escape has never enjoyed such niche marketing.

It is because women are never lazy. They don't know what it is to be quiet. They are Semiramides, and Cleopatras, and Joans of Arc, Queen Elizabeths, and Catharines the Second, and they riot in battle, and murder, and clamor and desperation.

Emma's mid-twenties had brought a second adolescence even more self-absorbed and doom-laden than the first one. 'Why don't you just come home, sweetheart?' her mum had said on the phone last night, using her quavering, concerned voice, as if her daughter had been abducted. 'Your room's still here. There's jobs at Debenhams' - and for the first time she had been tempted. Once, she thought she could conquer London. She had imagined a whirl of literary salons, political engagement, larky parties, bittersweet romances conducted on Thames embankments. She had intended to form a band, make short films, write novels, but two years on slim volume of verse was no fatter, and nothing really good had happened to her since she'd been baton-charged at Poll Tax Riots.

It’s complete madness! There are cars on fire, shops being looted by teenagers, people rioting and protesting over something they have no control over. And these are people that haven’t even had to deal with the infected, yet! They’re destroying their neighborhoods like savages, instead of preparing for the hell that’s about to hit them like a tsunami! Mark my words, when the infection reaches this area, they are all going to be infected within the first hour because they are not prepared to defend themselves. They are too busy being stupid!

Then the ’60s had gotten angry. Those other ’60s, the later ’60s, were not about marching forward, but fighting back. Segregation, determination, demonstration, integration, aggravation, humiliation, obligation to the nation, they had exploded in a ball of confusion, riot, and rage that burned halfway through the next decade. And the band played on.

According to the lovely folks at Merriam-Webster, the term “hippie,” in the sense of hirsute member of the counterculture, dates back to 1965, which is a skosh later than I might have guessed. One fun thing about dictionaries is that they’ll provide a date of introduction into written English for just about any word you can think of. This comes in awfully handy when you’re writing period fiction and wish to be era-appropriate, especially in dialogue. Copyediting a novel set during New York’s 1863 Draft Riots, I learned that what we now call a hangover—a term that didn’t pop up till 1894—was known in those earlier days as, among other things, a “katzenjammer.” Note, please, my use of quotation marks just now. I needed them.

Who in the Hell is Tom Jones?" I was shacked with a 24 year old girl from New York City for two weeks- about the time of the garbage strike out there, and one night my 34 year old woman arrived and she said, "I want to see my rival." she did and then she said, "o, you're a cute little thing!" next I knew there was a screech of wildcats- such screaming and scratch- ing, wounded animal moans, blood and piss. . . I was drunk and in my shorts. I tried to seperate them and fell, wrenched my knee. then they were through the screen door and down the walk and out into the street. squadcars full of cops arrived. a police heli- coptor circled overhead. I stood in the bathroom and grinned in the mirror. it's not often at the age of 55 that such splendid things occur. better than the Watts riots. the 34 year old came back in. she had pissed all over her- self and her clothing was torn and she was followed by 2 cops who wanted to know why. pulling up my shorts I tried to explain. Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye: A Novel. (Ecco; Reprint edition July 29, 2014) Originally published 1982.

These are merely a few of the things that went through my mind, and are related for the sake of vindicating myself in advance in the weak and helpless role I was destined to play. But I thought, also, of my mother and sisters, and pictured their grief. I was among the missing dead of the Martinez disaster, an unrecovered body. I could see the head-lines in the papers; the fellows at the University Club and the Bibelot shaking their heads and saying, “Poor chap!” And I could see Charley Furuseth, as I had said good-bye to him that morning, lounging in a dressing-gown on the be-pillowed window couch and delivering himself of oracular and pessimistic epigrams. And all the while, rolling, plunging, climbing the moving mountains and falling and wallowing in the foaming valleys, the schooner Ghost was fighting her way farther and farther into the heart of the Pacific—and I was on her. I could hear the wind above. It came to my ears as a muffled roar. Now and again feet stamped overhead. An endless creaking was going on all about me, the woodwork and the fittings groaning and squeaking and complaining in a thousand keys. The hunters were still arguing and roaring like some semi-human amphibious breed. The air was filled with oaths and indecent expressions. I could see their faces, flushed and angry, the brutality distorted and emphasized by the sickly yellow of the sea-lamps which rocked back and forth with the ship. Through the dim smoke-haze the bunks looked like the sleeping dens of animals in a menagerie. Oilskins and sea-boots were hanging from the walls, and here and there rifles and shotguns rested securely in the racks. It was a sea-fitting for the buccaneers and pirates of by-gone years. My imagination ran riot, and still I could not sleep. And it was a long, long night, weary and dreary and long.

It did not take long before there was a full-scale riot on West 125 Street.

™' (Just Doomed!) David Worthy Category: Character Appears in: Schooling Around series David Worthy is a class captain of 5B at Northwest Southeast Central School (David shares the captaincy with Fiona McBrain). David is very fond of rules and is never happier than when quoting from the school handbook. Appearances Treasure Fever! (2008) Pencil of Doom! (2008) Mascot Madness! (2009) Robot Riot! (2009) The Day My Bum Went Psycho Category: Novel Series: The Bum trilogy Author: Andy Griffiths Illustrator: Terry Denton Publisher: Pan Macmillan Year of publication: 2001

I jump down from my box. I am afraid he will be trampled. He is unconscious and not in view of the panicked crowd. I go to his side and find someone already there, pushing the box off him. I bend down and say his name softly. Mike, I say. His eyes open, and he is already crying. This is his first police riot, mine too. The blood is always heavy on any head wound, I say, remembering something random as I try to calm him. And I tear off a piece of my T-shirt to press against his head.

people who would furnish their home with the bleak minimalist style of a Scandinavian detective novel.

written by people whose views were different than ours.  We didn’t let people we disagreed with make movies or television.  We called it ‘canceling.’  We were told those ideas were evil, scary, and could incite violence or riots.  Just like that, we had one way to think, one way to write, one set of beliefs to follow, and we did it to ourselves.

As usual, I'm supposed to be one of the most powerful men in the city, and my future is totally dependent on someone in a worn-out "Riot Grrrl" tee-shirt and fuzzy slippers.

I stood on the old ferry dock and watched the icy sludge slide by. Patches of white ice slipped through, but mostly it was grey slush, sluggish and heavy looking. The air was sharp and clear, one of the few benefits of the evacuation and reducing temperature, the centuries-old odour of industry and modern life frozen and discarded, leaving a crispness previously only found among the peaks of mountain ranges. On the far bank stood the ruins of Birkenhead, where the riots had been particularly bad and the fires that followed were allowed to rage out of control. It had taken weeks for the conflagration to finally die, leaving behind soot-blackened husks of buildings, grotesque sculptures of melted glass and metal and more dead than anyone ever cared to count.

The TSA started out being union goons frisking us at airports, then turned into an agency that regulated where you could go, how far you could go, and how often. Now look at it! They’ve shut down the interstates and some of the highways because the President is afraid some Americans might riot in Washington. I don’t think he needs to worry, too many of us have turned into sheep, and are willing to let the government do whatever it wants.

Love was like the heaven the church in the old days had offered to the poor to keep them from rioting.

knew it wouldn’t be long before someone rose up to incite anger against the Romans,” a Herodian party member joined alongside Kayafa. “This ‘peace’ from Tiberius couldn’t last, just as Augustus’ ‘pax’ couldn’t last.” “Zechariah’s son is not inciting riots,” Nakdimon defended him. “Wherever he goes, people listen, yes, but they do not gather swords into their homes. Rather, they go home and pray, wanting to further increase their alliance with Yehuway.” “Are you, Nakdimon, a party member of this rising cult?” Annas queried him with a menacing look. “I am a loyal member of the Sanhedrin as well as a strong Parush,” he defiantly replied. “However, I have known Zechariah over fifty years and he did not raise an inciter.” “But his son is an instigator, is he not?” “If he is an instigator, it is not the shout of a sword. Rather, it is the calm of peace.” After a brief lull, he continued, “Yehohanan only wants us to ‘repent’.” “Repent?” Kayafa repeated. “And how does he propose to atone for mankind’s sins? By washing them away? We are the ones who are appointed by God to help mankind realign themselves with vindication – not a man hollering simple triflings at a crowd of simpletons.” “What you mean to say is this: since Yehohanan has been baptizing in the river, you now have an overage of livestock that you cannot sell because many people no longer believe they have to present a sacrifice to atone for their sins. Your treasury lessens.” “It is more than that,” Kayafa returned. “Yehohanan is a kohen of the House of Abijah, prepared to be the kohen hagadol of Hebron. He has gained wide respect and renown throughout the land. I discern Yehohanan wants to create a new social order! Who is this ‘man who is coming after me’ that he wants to elevate? More, is that not the tactic of an ambitious cult? Do we not now have three bodies acting on God’s behalf, and now, perhaps a fourth?

Florida sought to remove what was estimated to be over one hundred thousand improper registrations by illegal residents, but was sued by the Department of Justice to prevent the State’s correction of fraud in its own voting records. The Attorney General accused several States seeking to void improper registrations with “voter suppression”. With the discovery of yet more pre-election voter fraud, with increasing numbers of registered undocumented immigrants, street riots broke out in increasing numbers of urban areas, with election offices burned and pillaged across the country.

Very soon there would be nobody to challenge the New Order, and France would settle down to life without labor unions, riots, strikes, and all the other appurtenances of democracy.

As Aristotle said, long before Christ, a people who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It is obvious that we are repeating it today. Solomon said, “There is nothing new under the sun.” The Roman empire was declining in the days of Saul of Tarshish as the American Republic is declining today—and for the very same reasons: Permissiveness in society, immorality, the Welfare State, endless wars, confiscatory taxation, the brutal destruction of the middleclass, cynical disregard of the established human virtues and principles and ethics, the pursuit of materialistic wealth, the abandonment of religion, venal politicians who cater to the masses for votes, inflation, deterioration of the monetary system, bribes, criminality, riots, incendiarisms, street demonstrations, the release of criminals on the public in order to create chaos and terror, leading to a dictatorship “in the name of emergency,” the loss of masculine sturdiness and the feminization of the people, scandals in public office, plundering of the treasury, debt, the attitude that “anything goes,” the toleration of injustice and exploitation, bureaucracies and bureaucrats issuing evil “regulations” almost every week, the centralization of government, the public contempt for good and honorable men, and, above all, the philosophy that “God is dead,” and that man is supreme.

Ten shockingly arty events What arty types like to call a ‘creative tension’ exists in art and music, about working right at the limits of public taste. Plus, there’s money to be made there. Here’s ten examples reflecting both motivations. Painting: Manet’s Breakfast on the Lawn, featuring a group of sophisticated French aristocrats picnicking outside, shocked the art world back in 1862 because one of the young lady guests is stark naked! Painting: Balthus’s Guitar Lesson (1934), depicting a teacher fondling the private parts of a nude pupil, caused predictable uproar. The artist claimed this was part of his strategy to ‘make people more aware’. Music: Jump to 1969 when Jimi Hendrix performed his own interpretation of the American National Anthem at the hippy festival Woodstock, shocking the mainstream US. Film: In 1974 censors deemed Night Porter, a film about a love affair between an ex-Nazi SS commander and his beautiful young prisoner (featuring flashbacks to concentration camp romps and lots of sexy scenes in bed with Nazi apparel), out of bounds. Installation: In December 1993 the 50-metre-high obelisk in the Place Concorde in the centre of Paris was covered in a giant fluorescent red condom by a group called ActUp. Publishing: In 1989 Salman Rushdie’s novel Satanic Verses outraged Islamic authorities for its irreverent treatment of Islam. In 2005 cartoons making political points about Islam featuring the prophet Mohammed likewise resulted in riots in many Muslim cities around the world, with several people killed. Installation: In 1992 the soon-to-be extremely rich English artist Damien Hirst exhibited a 7-metre-long shark in a giant box of formaldehyde in a London art gallery – the first of a series of dead things in preservative. Sculpture: In 1999 Sotheby’s in London sold a urinoir or toilet-bowl-thing by Marcel Duchamp as art for more than a million pounds ($1,762,000) to a Greek collector. He must have lost his marbles! Painting: Also in 1999 The Holy Virgin Mary, a painting by Chris Ofili representing the Christian icon as a rather crude figure constructed out of elephant dung, caused a storm. Curiously, it was banned in Australia because (like Damien Hirst’s shark) the artist was being funded by people (the Saatchis) who stood to benefit financially from controversy. Sculpture: In 2008 Gunther von Hagens, also known as Dr Death, exhibited in several European cities a collection of skinned corpses mounted in grotesque postures that he insists should count as art.

Dickens was already planning a novel of his own which would develop several of the themes in “A Visit to Newgate,” to be called Gabriel Vardon, the Locksmith of London, set during the period of the anti-Catholic Gordon Riots in the 1780s. But while Sketches by Boz was being prepared for the press, he was diverted by a request to write some stories to accompany a set of sporting prints. The result was The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, the first and least typical of all the great novels which were to flow subsequently

By the third week, it seemed like the civilized world was fighting a losing battle. There were riots, which led to anarchy. State militias had taken over, where the governments failed. The Union was facing its worst catastrophe, since the American Civil War. State officials were calling for the head of the president for failing his duty to his country.

It was still hard for her to believe what was happening. One moment she was eating fried chicken and the next there was a full-blown riot on the street. The rest was like a crazy roller coaster ride from hell.

You saw the race riots in Watts. . . . Do nice people go around burning and looting — and even killing? Not since last night. When our Marines razed a village outside Khe Sanh in North Vietnam.