Rutina Wesley Quotes

Well, I think storytellers have always found murder a fascinating device.

Blood and death. That moves me.

The old fool has taken more lives in that naked country than I have taken for the murder of my father.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

I love splashing the blood around.

A girl my age had been murdered in these woods and I'd seen her last terrified moments, watched her bleed to death in this forest. A life like mine had ended here, and it didn't matter how many times I'd seen deaths in movies, it wasn't the same, and I wasn't ever going to forget it.

The bathroom door swings open. Emma sees the blood painting my skin and the red rivers carved on my body. Emma sees the wet knife, silver and bone. The screams of my little sister shatter mirrors.

Just take a look around you: Blood is flowing in rivers and in such a jolly way you’d think it was champagne.

His blood is black and boiling hot, he gurgles ghastly groans. He'll cook you in his dinner pot, your skin, your flesh, your bones.

Every Senator in this Chamber is partly responsible for sending 50,000 young Americans to an early grave. This Chamber reeks of blood.

Brother will kill brother, Spilling blood across the land...

On a cold, fretful afternoon in early October, 1872, a hansom cab drew up outside the offices of Lockhart and Selby, Shipping Agents, in the financial heart of London, and a young girl got out and paid the driver. She was a person of sixteen or so--alone, and uncommonly pretty. She was slender and pale, and dressed in mourning, with a black bonnet under which she tucked back a straying twist of blond hair that the wind had teased loose. She had unusually dark brown eyes for one so fair. Her name was Sally Lockhart; and within fifteen minutes, she was going to kill a man.

To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband's dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.

War is death's feast.

All the hideously calculated hypocrisy of men when they commit a murder in the name of justice. Then it's the time of death on a grander scale, the hour of the great offenses ... fix your bayonets boys ...gentlemen, synchronize your watches ... in ten seconds time the barrage starts ... a thousand men are destined to die in order to capture a farmhouse no one has lived in for years...

You're nobody 'til somebody kills you.

War is murder writ large.

How much blood makes a 'bloodbath'?

The hideous god of war.

Afflictions, persecutions, imprisonments, and death, we must expect, according to the scriptures, which tell us that the blood of those whose souls were under the altar could not be avenged on them that dwell on the earth, until their brethren should be slain as they were.

The lamp of war is kindled here, not to be extinguished but by torrents of blood.

It is only blood that can wash away such an outrage; die or kill.

Blood, though it sleep a time, yet never dies. The gods on murtherers fix revengeful eyes.