You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.

Only the cruelest hunters set their traps with terror and trepidation.

I heard her voice, her stories, her softness as she spoke of her family, and her iron as she spoke of me - I heard her scream, and I moved without thought.

I’ve never run this far before," he said at one point. "Or this fast for so long. It’s better than sticking your head out a car window, that’s for sure."My theory is that Oberon might be a master of Tao. He always sees what we filter out. The wind and the grass and something in the sky, sun or moon, shining on our backs as we run: They are gifts that humans toss away like socks on Christmas morning, because we see them every day and don’t think of them as gifts anymore. But new socks are always better than old socks. And the wind and grass and sky, I think, are better seen with new eyes than jaded ones. I hope my eyes will never grow old.

I dispelled my invisibility for a few seconds in his full view, a finger resting provocatively on my lower lip, giving him a come-hither look under a streetlight. His jaw and the bottle of Żubrówka dropped at the same time. It shattered, drawing his eyes to the sidewalk, and I took the opportunity afforded by his distraction to disappear again."That was mean," Oberon said, watching the man look wildly around for me and pawing at his eyes as if to clear them.Why? I asked. I’ve done him no harm."Yes, you have. You will haunt him for the rest of his life. I know from experience."You’re haunted by someone flashing you on a street corner?"No. It was a dog park. Atticus and I were just arriving and she was leaving."Oh, here we go."She was so fit and her coat was tightly curled and she had a perfect pouf on the end of her tail like a tennis ball. I saw her for maybe five seconds, until she hopped into a Honda and her human drove her away. And now I can’t see a Honda without seeing her."But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Kind of romantic? A vision of perfection you can treasure forever, unspoiled by reality."Well, I don’t know. In reality I’d like to try spoiling her, if she was in the mood."Look, Oberon, that man is lonely. He’s too skinny and sweaty, and I’m willing to bet you five cows that he’s socially awkward or he wouldn’t be staggering drunk at this hour. But now, for the rest of his life, he will remember the na**d woman on the street who looked at him with desire. When people treat him like something untouchable, he will have that memory to comfort him."Or obsess over. What if he starts wandering the streets every night looking for you?"Then he’s misunderstood the nature of beauty. It doesn’t stay, except in our minds."Oh! I think I see. That’s true, Clever Girl! Sausage never stays, because I eat it, but it’s always beautiful in my mind.

These were people who hunted for a way to erase the haunted, malnourished gaze from their souls and replace it with their faith in freedom and safety.

The dark sky seemed to swallow the moon, as Samantha stood alone on the deserted highway.

In order to survive in a world of instinct,its' alternative is to hunt or being hunted.Reject this, then be prepared to be hunted.

From New Delhi to New York, from Durban to Rio; women andgirls are been hunted down by rapists, abused by pedophiles andemotionally decapitated by a society that is becoming increasinglyhostile to the womenfolk

They were actually sitting at a table, like two old friends, not like the hunterand the hunted. And it wasn't especially awkward. They were comfortable together,despite the fact that she'd hit him with a bus. Maybe his scheme would work.

Woolrich had a genius for creating types of story perfectly consonant with his world: the noir cop story, the clock race story, the waking nightmare, the oscillation thriller, the headlong through the night story, the annihilation story, the last hours story. These situations, and variations on them, and others like them, are paradigms of our position in the world as Woolrich sees it. His mastery of suspense, his genius (like that of his spiritual brother Alfred Hitchcock) for keeping us on the edge of our seats and gasping with fright, stems not only from the nightmarish situations he conjured up but from his prose, which is compulsively readable, cinematically vivid, high-strung almost to the point of hysteria, forcing us into the skins of the hunted and doomed where we live their agonies and die with them a thousand small deaths.

As a bird with beautiful feathers is the target of hunters, so the gifted are targets of the envious.

Animals shouldn’t be hunted and nature shouldn’t be disturbed, even destroyed, to benefit the whims of mankind

You can be the hunter, or you can be the hunted.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

On this planet are every kind of deadly animal from across the stars. The only people that come here are hunters looking for the most dangerous of trophies. No rescue. You either get your prize or you die.

Turning, she looked out at the icy landscape, the soaring trees, branches dark and bitten blue with frost. And for a moment, she had something like a premonition, a feeling that something terrible was watching her, something hungry and sick. She could nearly hear it out there, panting between the trees, its breath ragged and spoiled.