Quotations of Great Thinkers

How the humans treat the animals

The animal torture is a crime and doesn't solely damage the victim, but also the culprit, because it de-ennobles his character.

Berta von Suttner
(1843 - 1916)

 
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The pity always remains the same feeling, whether one feels it for people or for a fly.

Leo Tolstoi
(1828 - 1910)

 
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What would be human in the eyes of a pig?

Testudo - Harald Kress
(+ 1994)
Owner of a textile-fabric

 
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I believe, we should walk our way of life together with the animals behaving farily to them.

Jahn Galsworthy
(1868 - 1933)

 
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It is God's wish, that we aid the animals, when they need help. Each nature has the same rights for protection when it's in distress.

Franz of Assisi, world animal protection patron
(1182-1226)

 
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The most important thing always is that the human being didn't interfere with his mutilating hand: A horse with cut off tail and mane, a dog with clipped short ears... such are things from which the good taste averses.

Goethe

 
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Whoever longs for honey, should not fear the sting of the bee.

Aphorism

 
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The child should learn to keep all the animal life sacred.

Jean Paul

 
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I cannot distinguish the pain of the animals from the pain of human beings.

Lilly Lehmann

 
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To the morality of which human would you trust more? To the misfortune of the one, who frees the gagged animals, or to the one, who gags them, to torture them?

Richard Wagner

 
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Consider this! Death will come, that makes us all same.

Let us practice humanity, while we stand in this earthly life!

Don't let us be a cause of the fear and danger for any of our fellow occupants on this Earth!

Seneca

 
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There have been three epidemics before:
  1. Desire
  2. Hunger
  3. Senility
Since the livestock now was slaughtered, ninety-eight were created new.

Suttanipata

 
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In the History the talk is much too less about the animals. The science has betrayed them by having made them to the end in itself.

Elias Canetti

 
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Fly-Paper: Tango Food

The fly paper tango food is approximately 36cm long and 21cm wide. It is covered with a yellow, poisoned glue, that comes from Canada.

If a fly settles on it - not especially greedily, more for conversation, because already so many others are there - it first sticks only with the most outer, unbended limbs of all its fragile limbs.

A very quiet, strange sensation, as if we went in the darkness and would step with bare soles on something, that is nothing but a warm, soft resistance, and already something, in which this human horror gradually floods in.
The recognition of a hand that lies there somehow and clings us with five fingers, which we sense clearer and clearer. Then, all the flies stand forced uprightly, like ramshackled old militaries and a little bowlegged, as if one stands on a narrow ridge. They bear up well and collect strength and consideration. After a few seconds, they are determined to start buzzing as much as they can, to take off. They furiously execute this for a very long time, until the exhaustion forces them to stop. A breather follows - and a new attempt.

But the intervals become longer. They stand there - and I feel how helplessly they are. From below, confusing mists rise. Their tongue touches out like a small hammer. Their head is brown hairy - like made of a coconut - like anthropoid Negro idols.

They bow forwards and backwards on their tied down little little legs, bend their knees and press themselves upwards, just like human beings do, trying to lift a heavy load as much as they can. More tragically than workers do. Keeping in the athletic expression as a Laokoon in the most outer effort. And then always comes the same strange moment, where the need of the present second wins against all mighty permanent feelings of the existence.
They cannot keep up from below with old strength. They sink in a little bit - and in this moment they seem quite human. Immediately, they are grasped at a new point. A bit higher above at the leg or at the back of their body or at the end of a wing. Then, they lie with stretched hind legs, pressed on their elbows and seek to come up. Or they lie on the stomach with head and arms in front, just like fallen while running - and they only hold their face up. But always, the enemy is just passive - and always just wins from their desperate and confused moments.

A nothingness, an "It" pulls them. So slow, that one can hardly able to watch. And usually with a sudden acceleration at the end, if the last inner breakdown comes over them, they let themselves drop down suddenly. Forward upon the face - or at the side - all legs stretched away.

Still one sometimes wakes up on the next day, touches with a leg or buzzes with the wing. Sometimes, such a movement goes over the whole field. Then, they all sink a little deeper into their death.

And only at the side of the body, in the area of the leg base, they have a quite small twinkling organ. This is still alife for a long time. It opens and closes. One cannot mark it without a magnifier. It looks like a tiny human eye, that continually opens and closes.

Robert Museel

 
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I ask myself, from which movement the human being was possessed, who was the first one who poisoned his mouth with coagulated blood and allowed his lips to touch the meat of a murdered creature; who covered his table with the hacked parts of cadavers, and described as his daily food and exquisite dishes, what had previously been equipped with movement, ability of perception and voice.

Only with the use of softeners and disguise with culinary preparation dead meat can be chewed and digested; this is the way to prevent, that the sight of the bloody juice and the ghastly crude horrors disgusts.

After Baron von Cuvier: Percey Shelley

 
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