The trodden worms, which had so long writhed under the iron heel of the oppressor, were turning at last. The smouldering fire of discontent was shooting out tongues of flame here and there. The sore stricken, who had brooded in sullen anger over their wrongs, were rising to strike in their turn.

For the youth, the indignation of most things will just surge as each birthday passes.

The neurotic circles ceaselessly above a fogged-in airport.

It's in the misery of some unnamed slum that the next killer virus will emerge.

This sphere has enough problems as it is, and slowly we could start thinking about how we can live better together. I ask myself: Aren't they starting to get a headache from the constant warfare?

From the ruins of a collapsing cause, the dust of recriminations always rises.

Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.

The fans are starting to get disgruntled with the board, with the players.

A new racket, probably. A depression breeds rackets as a swamp breeds mosquitoes.

There will be many which will increase in their destruction.

Sometimes there is such crowding that there is irritation, and this makes fear or anger; and following fear comes meetings of councils to make regulations; and following regulations is further irritation at the laws that are made.

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields.

Discontent goaded the spirit into fresh creation.

Familiarity seems to breed contempt