The best quotes by Oriana Fallaci

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Sin wasn't born the day Eve picked the apple. That day a splendid virtue was born called disobendience.

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I'm here in order to explain how much is hypocritical the world that gets fired up for a surgeon who replaces a heart with another, and then approves that thousands of young creatures, with the heart in order, are sent to die, like cows to the slaughterhouse, for the flag.

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Nothing hurts, poisons, makes you ill, as disappointment does.
Because disappointment is a pain that derives from vanished hope, a defeat that is always born from betrayed trust, from the turn-face of someone or something in which we believed. And being subjected to it you keel tricked, mocked, humiliated. The victim of an injustice that you weren't expecting, of a failure that you didn't deserve. You feel offended, ridiculous, and sometimes you seek revenge. A choice that can give some relief, let's admit, but that rarely goes with joy and that often costs more than forgiveness.

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It's so fascinating to be a woman. It's an adventure that requires such courage, a never tiring challenge. You'll have many things to do if you're born a woman. To start with, you'll have to fight to sustain that if God exists he could also be an old woman with white hair or a beautiful girl. Then you'll have to fight to explain that sin wasn't born the day Eve picked the apple: that day a wonderful virtue was born called disobedience. Lastly you'll have to fight to show that inside your soft and round body there's an intelligence that is asking to be heard.

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It's incredible how the pain of the soul is misunderstood. If you're hit by a bullet or a splinter they start immediately screaming quick-nurse-help-him, if you break a leg they'll, should you have a sore throat they'll give you medicine. If your heart is in pieces and you're so desperate that you can't speak, instead, they don't even realize. Yet pain in the soul is a worse illness than a broken leg and a sore throat, it's wounds are deeper and more dangerous than those inflicted by a bullet or a splinter. They're wounds that don't heal, those, wounds that start bleeding again at every pretext.

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Love's death is life the death of a loved one. It leaves the same torment, the same emptiness, the same refusal to dive up to that emptiness. If you've been waiting for it, caused it, wanted it to defend yourself or for common sense of for the need of freedom when it comes along you feel invalid. Mutilated.

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In the mad or sweet hugs your body that was not tried but your soul, your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, your poems. And maybe it's true that love almost never relates to a body, often we choose or accept a person for inexplicable charm with which it hits us, or for what it represents to our eyes, our beliefs, to our morals; however, the vehicle of a loving relationship remains the body, and if that doesn't seduce you, something else has to seduce you. The character, for example, the way of living or the behavior. And in time I discovered that I didn't like a lot your character [...] So why had I the impulse to run after you, to hug you, feel your mustache against my cheek, why did I feel the need to scrape off the throat and send back the tears?

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Almost nothing like the war, and nothing like an unfair war, crushes the dignity of the man.

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Habit is the most infamous of ilnesses, because it makes us accept any accident, any pain, any death.
For habit we live next to odious people, you learn to carry the chains and to be subjected to injustice, to suffer, you resign to pain, to solitude, to all. Habit is the most merciless of poisons because it seeps in slowly, silently and it grows slowly fostering on our unawareness, and when we discover we have it on us every move is conditioned, no medicine exists than can heal us.

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Because there are tens of thousands of Osama Bin Ladens by now, and they're not only in Afghanistan or in other Arabic countries. They're everywhere, and the most hardened ones are right in the Western world. In our cities, in our roads, in our universities, in the ganglions of technology. That technology that any dolt can handle. The Crusade has been in progress for some time. It works like a Swiss watch, sustained by a faith and a malice comparable only to the faith and malice of Torquemada when he led the Inquisition. The fact is that dealing with them is impossible. Reasoning, unthinkable. Treating them with indulgence, tolerance or hope, suicide. Whoever thinks differently is deluded.