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Anger becomes limiting, restricting. You can’t see through it. While anger is there, look at that, too. But after a while, you have to look at something else.
I love each and every one of you but, like my own family, you thrill, you frustrate, you anger.
I don’t have the feeling of being motivated by anger, revenge or frustration.
Anger is seldom without argument but seldom with a good one.
As a system of philosophy it is not like the Tower of Babel, so daring its high aim as to seek a shelter against God’s anger but it is like a pyramid poised on its apex.
I don’t think I could play a character that I couldn’t relate to somehow. I’m not unfamiliar with frustration, anger, shame, helplessness and a load of other emotions that make up our psycho-soup. I try to focus on that frustration, that sense of unfairness, and multiply it.
I’m really busted up over this and I’m very, very sorry to those people in the audience, the blacks, the Hispanics, whites – everyone that was there that took the brunt of that anger and hate and rage and how it came through.
The anger that appears to be building up between the sexes becomes more virulent with every day that passes. And far from women taking the blame… the fact is that men are invariably portrayed as the bad guys. Being a good man is like being a good Nazi.
For a long time I thought I could deal with my anger and hostility on my own. But I couldn’t. I denied that it had affected me, and yet I was so frantic on the inside with other people: I needed to be constantly reassured.
The poor monkey, quietly seated on the ground, seemed to be in sore trouble at this display of anger.