Hate Quotes
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God, I hate my voice! Everyone thinks I'm a female, probably... I am actually a male!
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My first film - a challenging role and completely different from the persona that was created in Italy. I was this super energetic, vibrant, happy, volumed hair, fitted dresses, the whole Italian va-va-voom thing. And the role was a girl that was really provoking society with being unnecessarily violent - just trying to see what people's limits are. It's a really dark tunnel to get to being nasty, being full of hate. When people hate there's a big sadness and rage within them, so it was interesting to go that dark with my first experience.
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We, the Desaparecidos, are perfectly prepared for people to hate what we're saying or not like what we're saying.
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Hate is funny. Love isn't. Love can kill you. Hate can keep you alive.
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I hate being on TV, hate dealing with media on TV. All that stuff, I don't like that.
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It is the wit and policy of sin to hate those we have abused.
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Oh, wonderful. I killed his father. He hates me. He knows how to make bombs. Come on, Wedge, how does this story end?
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Hate does not produce love, and by hate one cannot remake the world.
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Never in a million years would I want to live at Versailles with Marie Antoinette or anybody else. I hate to tell you this but I did not even like visiting Versailles. I found it just too ornate. It was like a complete diet of cotton candy, marzipan, and whipped cream.
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I talked to congressmen who really hate having to go to the many fundraisers, but they see it as a necessary part of their job.
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America needs fewer men obsessed with erecting fences of hate, suspicion and name calling.
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Here's a confession: I hate parenting books. I hate the ones that are earnest and repetitive.
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The Williams girls compete extremely hard on court because they hate losing - it's just that they haven't played an awful lot of tennis over the years.
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Lots of guys don't like Jacques Plante, but he has been good to me. He's always by himself, you know, and how can you hate a guy when you never see him?
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I just hate to lose. When I am on the court, it is like my life depends on it.
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Everybody else goes out and plays a show as if it's their album, which is boring. I'd rather sit at home and listen to the album, because I hate to be in a smoke-filled, loud room - that's not enjoyable for me at all...I always look up to guys who can sit and do dinner music...they're singing in tune and playing somebody else's music, and I don't think I could do that...it's the shittiest job in the world.
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I just would hate to have to fight my own teammate. I would never want to.
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I never knew until I came here to Hollywood that somebody could be really nice to you for years and really hate your guts. Happens all the time here.
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For a long time I used to think this a silly, straw-splitting distinction: how could you hate what a man did and not hate the man? But years later it occurred to me that there was one man to whom I had been doing this all my life - namely myself.
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Ask Me Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made. I will listen to what you say. You and I can turn and look at the silent river and wait. We know the current is there, hidden; and there are comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. What the river says, that is what I say.
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I hate record labels. They think they know everything. I want to hear them try to sing it.
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Men hate to be misunderstood, and to be understood makes them furious.
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Theater is something that as a performance artist you have to hate.
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There is nothing dictators hate so much as that unassailable, eternally elusive, eternally provoking gleam. One of the main reasons why the very gallant Russian poet Gumilev was put to death by Lenin's ruffians thirty odd years ago was that during the whole ordeal, in the prosecutor's dim office, in the torture house, in the winding corridors that led to the truck, in the truck that took him to the place of execution, and at that place itself, full of the shuffling feet of the clumsy and gloomy shooting squad, the poet kept smiling.
