Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

That which does not kill me can only make me stronger. I don’t see why everybody feels as though they gotta tell me how to live my life.

You may kill me, but I can hold you – and all the universe for that matter – in the grip of this small brain. I would not change. Even now.

Whoever has experienced the power and the unrestrained ability to humiliate another human being automatically loses his own sensations. Tyranny is a habit, it has its own organic life, it develops finally into a disease. The habit can kill and coarsen the very best man or woman to the level of a beast. Blood and power intoxicate … the return of the human dignity, repentance and regeneration becomes almost impossible.

Kill me, or you are a murderer.

When people come to me saying they want to kill themselves, I tell them, “What’s your rush? You can kill yourself any time you like. So calm down. Suicide is a positive act.” And they do calm down.

I live only because it is in my power to die when I choose to: without the idea of suicide, I’d have killed myself right away.

My mission is to kill time, and time’s to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

I’ve killed just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another. And I’m here to kill you, Little Bill, for what you did to Ned.

Know they’d kill me in my hood, but I just keep on comin’ through.