Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Inhumement. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Inhumement Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including Philip Yancey,Cato The Younger,Madame Roland,Anna Akhmatova,George Harrison for you to enjoy and share.
Ungrace does its work quietly and lethally, like a poisonous, undetectable gas. A father dies unforgiven. A mother who once carried a child in her own body does not speak to that child for half its life. The toxin steals on, from generation to generation.
Flee sloth; for the indolence of the soul is the decay of the body.
Ennui is the disease of hearts without feeling, and of minds without resources.
All's taken away: my love and my power.
The body, thrown into city it hates,
Finds no joy in the sunlight. With every hour
The blood grows colder in my veins.
Throughout much of our lives, our association with the temporary has risen. This transitory body, a sack of bones and flesh, is considered erroneously as our true body and we have accepted this temporary condition as conclusive.
Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state.
Sterile, splendid torture of understanding and loving ...
We are all sentenced to capital punishment for the crime of living, and though the condemned cell of our earthly existence is but a narrow and bare dwelling-place, we have adjusted ourselves to it, and made it tolerably comfortable for the little while we are to be confined in it.
They were herded passively into the gas chambers. Weary of being hunted and persecuted, of living in constant fear, they dumbly awaited the hand of the sure physician, Death. For them life had lost all meaning and purpose. To prolong it would merely have prolonged their suffering.
A prison! heav'ns, I loath the hated name,
Famine's metropolis, the sink of shame,
A nauseous sepulchre, whose craving womb
Hourly inters poor mortals in its tomb;
By ev'ry plague and ev'ry ill possess'd,
Ev'n purgatory itself to thee 's a jest.
What seems a kind of temporal death to people choked between walls and curtains, is only a light and living slumber to the man who sleeps a-field.
Iron rusts from disuse, stagnant water loses its purity, and in cold weather becomes frozen; even so does inaction sap the vigors of the mind.
Abasement, degradation is simply the manner of life of the man who has refused to be what it is his duty to be.
In that dark hour I was aghast to realise that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died. I suddenly knew I had no desire or tenderness or esteem. Nothing remained except the chill bonds of law and duty an custom.
When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.
We are resident inside with the machinery, a glimmering spread throughout the apparatus. We exist with a wind whispering inside and our moon flexing. Amid the ducts, inside the basilica of bones. The flesh is a neighborhood, but not the life.
The human soul finds its saddest imprisonment when it is helpless in the presence of cruelty, when it cannot right a wrong. It finds its highest freedom when it can secure justice to others.
Not the kind of unconsciousness that torments the dead, but the kind that kills the living.
Sleep, the type of death, is also, like that which it typifies, restricted to the earth. It flies from hell and is excluded from heaven.
Sanctification has a double aspect. Its positive side is vivification, the growing and maturing of the new man; its negative side is mortification, the weakening and killing of the old man.
Alienation is a form of living death. It is the acid of despair that dissolves society.
There is a certain right by which we many deprive a man of life, but none by which we may deprive him of death; this is mere cruelty.
He lay in darkness, like a sacrifice; he could hear the teeth of his leprosy devouring his flesh. There was a smell of contempt around him, insisting on his impotence. But his lips were bowed in a placid smile, a look of fondness, as if he had come at last to approve his disintegration.
a gradual leaking away of all conviction
Privation is the source of appetite.
Psychological imprisonment was no less uncomfortable than its physical counterpart. In some ways, it was even worse; it provided the illusion of physical freedom, but garnered none of the benefits of it.
Intemperance is the epitome of every crime, the cause of every kind of misery.
The new experience that has replaced dignified suffering is artificially prolonged, opaque, depersonalized maintenance.
The voluntary captive
The speechless the prisoner
Which I hide in my very depths ...
The cemetery of the victims of human cruelty in our century is extended to include yet another vast cemetery, that of the unborn.
The torment of imprisonment lies in not being able to escape from oneself at any time.
Like herbs in a pestle, life steadily ground out the essence of those who did not have access to comforts.
I live in company with a body, a silent companion, exacting and eternal. He it is who notes that individuality which is the seal of the weakness of our race. My soul has wings, but the brutal jailer is strict.
Such is the power of death -- to strip away breath and transform a person into an airy abstraction.
What a mysterious thing madness is. I have watched patients whose lips are forever sealed in a perpetual silence. They live, breathe, eat; the human form is there, but that something, which the body can live without, but which cannot exist without the body, was missing.
The torture of being the unseen object, and the constantly observed subject.
Wherever I go I need a period of incubation so that I may learn the essence of nature, which never wishes to be understood or yield herself.
It is not death to have the body called back to the earth, and dissolved into its kindred elements, and mouldered to dust, and, it may be, turn to daisies, in the grave. But it is death to have the soul paralyzed, its inner life quenched, its faculties dissipated; that is death.
We are prisoners of the world's demented sink.
The soft enchantments of our years of innocence
Are harvested by accredited experience
Our fondest memories soon turn to poison
And only oblivion remains in season.
The typical worker who through the whole of his life ... pursues the idea of a certain artificial and elegant repose which he may never arrive at, for which he sacrifices a real tranquility ... It is this deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the industry of mankind.
Privation and suffering alone open the mind to all that is hidden to others. (Igjugarjuk)
Nature has provided for the exigency of privation, by putting the measure of our necessities far below the measure of our wants. Our necessities are to our wants as Falstaff's pennyworth of bread to his any quantity of sack.
All life was finally judged by this degree of irritation: abuse of things that were not natural, the sedentary life of cities, novel reading, theatergoing, immoderate thirst for knowledge,
Suffering of sentient beings is like decay; it fertilizes the growth of their souls.
The worst cruelty that can be inflicted on a human being is isolation.
This is deathless: the liberation of the mind through lack of clinging.
purification in fire. public cremation
If only we would wake from (these) states of oblivion with some certain sense that there was no mystery to life at all, that cruelty was purely impersonal, but we don't.
The sickened human is something to be experimented with.
Whenever a human being, through the commission of a crime, has become exiled from good, he needs to be reintegrated with it through suffering. The suffering should be inflicted with the aim of bringing the soul to recognize freely some day that its infliction was just.
Life is the jailer of the soul in this filthy prison, and its only deliverer is death.
Death is buried there into death
Hunger strikes on its own last breath
No spine to shiver, no heart talks
At life's craving poverty mocks
From the poem 'Exhumation
We're on the threshold of death. Soon, we shall be inside ...
Much more wretched than lackof health inthe body, it is to dwell with a soul that is not healthy, but corrupt.
I account this body nothing but a close prison to my soul; and the earth a larger prison to my body. I may not break prison till I be loosed by death; but I will leave it, not unwillingly,when I am loosed.
The individual's habits of thought make an organic complex, the trend of which is necessarily in the direction of serviceability to the life process. When it is attempted to assimilate systematic waste or futility, as an end in life, into this organic complex, there presently supervenes a revulsion.
Sleep, delicious and profound, the very counterfeit of death
Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out ...
Dread not infanticide; the crime is imaginary: we are always mistress of what we carry in our womb, and we do no more harm in destroying this kind of matter than in evacuating another, by medicines, when we feel the need.
To dispose a soul to action we must upset its equilibrium.
We combat obstacles in order to get repose, and when got, the repose is insupportable.
Abstract work, if one wishes to do it well, must be allowed to destroy one's humanity; one raises a monument which is at the same time a tomb, in which, voluntarily, one slowly inters oneself.
After a day of heat and hunger, one is weak and listless. But a certain stuport, an internal numbness, has its benefits: man could not survive here without it, for otherwise the biological, animal part of his nature would bite to death everything that is still human in him.
The human body is not a thing or substance, given, but a continuous creation. The human body is an energy system which is never a complete structure; never static; is in perpetual inner self-construction and self-destruction; we destroy in order to make it new.
The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison air; It is only what is good in man That wastes and withers there.
Life is a brief opportunity to do something prehumously.
The body may be the home of the soul and the pathway of the spirit, but it is also the perversity, the stubborn resistance, the malign contagion of the material world. Having a body, being in the body, is like being roped to a sick cat.
Vice incapacitates a man from all public duty; it withers the powers of his under- standing, and makes his mind paralytic.
I had never seen a prison, nor had I even imagined one, but there is a racial memory in man that instinctively knows of these things. The architecture of misery has an unmistakable look and feel about it.
There is a certain even-handed justice in Time; and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose - the mild autumnal weather of the soul.
The entity that gives life and motion to the human body is finer still and lies infinitely beyond the reach of our finest scientific instruments. When this entity deserts the body, the body is like a ship without a rudder - deserted, motionless, dead.
The cold is waiting to ooze through the soles of your shoes. Maggot-damp, this city is festering: home to hollow faces of grey flesh. They stare from windows unclean, into the sun never reaches: dismal lives lived in dismal constriction.
People were entrapped not only by illness and unjust social conditions, but by the sorrows and passions they themselves created in their own hearts and minds.
Metaphorically, the body becomes a machine to be driven or a garbage dump to be avoided. At the same time, the magnificent Mother in whose womb we live is mindlessly poisoned and raped. Surely, our insane denial has to be perceived and acted upon.
Life is rather a short walk through eternity. Be they seeds, pups or infants, on the trek all pick up weight, sensitivity and awareness. Then, much before the end of the run, they deteriorate, head, legs and lungs. The tragicomedy of existence: the long walk of slow decay.
It is the system, rather than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. My prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the Midas-hand, whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of Mammon.
Execution halts your breath, helter skelter spiral death.
There are times when I wonder whether I'm not already dead. This is no life; waiting in darkness, in silence, in a room so squalid I have forgotten the smell of fresh air. The
Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning,
But has not answer'd like the apparatus
Of the Humane Society's beginning,
By which men are unsuffocated gratis:
What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart-threads had become weak and even breathing would have broken them.
You are a person and then you cease to be a person, and a cadaver takes your place.
Man may be doomed to loss, sorrow, and desolation, but if he tries his strength and will, however briefly, upon the indifferent vast hostility of the elements, he rages against futility and asserts his right of being
At the city gates a corpse or two hung, moldering, from the municipal gallows. Within the walls, there were the usual dirty streets, the customary gamut of smells, from wood smoke to excrement, from geese to incense, from baking bread to horses, swine and unwashed humanity. Peasants,
Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
The inception of human consciousness, the genesis of awareness, must have entailed prolonged 'condensations' around intractable nodes of wonder and terror, at the discriminations to be made between the self and the other, between being and non-being (the discovery of the scandal of death).
The inmates of the second ward in the right wing have decided, at long last, to bury their dead, at least we shall be rid of that particular stench, the smell of the living, however fetid, will be easier to get used to.
This was an environment built, not for man, but for man's absence.
This wretched body, the chain and prison of the soul, is tossed hither and thither; upon it punishment and pillage and disease wreak havoc: but the soul itself is holy and eternal, and it cannot be assailed with violence.
The paramount terror that plagues humankind is to live a meaningless life of an exile, an incomplete person whom fails to experience the rapture of living in an astonishing manner.
Whilst the Bihar calamity damages the body, the calamity brought about by untouchability corrodes the very soul.
Infelicity is an ill to which all acts are heir which have the general character of ritual or ceremonial, all conventional acts.
The question of how and why the encrustations and rigidifications of human emotional life are brought about led directly into the realm of vegetative life.
The body loaded by the excess of yesterday, depresses the mind also, and fixes to the ground this particle of divine breath.
[Lat., Quin corpus onustum
Hesternis vitiis, animum quoque praegravat una
Atque affigit humo divinae particulam aurae.]
A few generations living and dying without a sky, and enclosed spaces lost the atavistic terror of premature burial.
Inside the walls of a prison my body may be, but my Lord has set my soul free.
There is torture of mind as well as body; the will is as much affected by fear as by force. And there comes a point where this Court should not be ignorant as judges of what we know as men.
Confining life to an eternal present is an insidious form of soul murder
Sanity and sense becomes a prison.
The proper condition of the human is not bovine placidity ... the highest degree of tension that can be creatively borne.