Let him be punished, sovereign, lest example
Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. William Shakespeare, Henry V II ii 45-46, Scrope to King Harry
Now, as fond fathers,
Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children’s sight
For terror, not to use, in time the rod
Becomes more mocked than feared; so our decrees,
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead,
And liberty plucks justice by the nose;
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart
Goes all decorum. William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure I iii 23
We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch and not their terror. ibid. II i 1
I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. William Shakespeare, The History of King Lear III vii 54
Fools do those villains pity who are punished
Ere they have done their mischief. ibid. IV ii 53-54, Albany
Wherever a knave is not punished, an honest man is laughed at. George Savile, 1633-95, ‘Political, Moral and Miscellaneous Thoughts and Reflections’, 1750
Punishment is now unfashionable ... because it creates moral distinctions among men, which, to the democratic mind, are odious. We prefer a meaningless collective guilt to a meaningful individual responsibility. Thomas Stephen Szasz
A person who has been punished is not thereby simply less inclined to behave in a given way; at best, he learns how to avoid punishment. B F Skinner, Beyond Freedom and Dignity
I am told that the proximity of punishment arouses real repentance in the criminal and sometimes awakens a feeling of genuine remorse in the most hardened heart; I am told this is due to fear. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
In short, the right given to one man to inflict corporal punishment on another is one of the ulcers of society, one of the most powerful destructive agents of every germ and every budding attempt at civilization, the fundamental cause of its certain and irretrievable destruction. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The House of the Dead
It is less to suffer punishment than to deserve it. Ovid
The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen’s heart leapt up in fear.
— Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class?
He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees.
— Hoho! he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is your name, boy?
— Fleming, sir.
— Hoho, Fleming! An idler of course. I can see it in your eye. Why is he on his knees, Father Arnall?
— He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnall said, and he missed all the questions in grammar.
— Of course he did! cried the perfect of studies, of course he did! A born idler! I can see it in the corner of his eye.
He banged his pandybat down on the desk and cried:
— Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!
Fleming stood up slowly.
— Hold out! cried the prefect of studies.
Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six.
— Other hand!
The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.
— Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.
Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain; but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the pandybat was terrible. Stephen’s heart was beating and fluttering.
— At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no lazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your work, I tell you. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be in tomorrow.
He poked one of the boys in the side with his pandybat, saying:
— You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again?
— Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong’s voice.
— Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies. Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You, boy, who are you?
Stephen’s heart jumped suddenly.
— Dedalus, sir.
— Why are you not writing like the others?
— I ... my …
He could not speak with fright.
— Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?
— He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from work.
— Broke? What is this I hear? What is this your name is! said the prefect of studies.
— Dedalus, sir.
— Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face. Where did you break your glasses?
— Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste.
— Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies.
— The cinder-path, sir.
— Hoho! The cinder path! cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick.
Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan’s white-grey not young face, his baldy white-grey head with fluff at the sides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles and his no-coloured eyes looking through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick?
— Lazy idle little loafer! cried the prefect of studies. Broke my glasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this moment!
Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with the palm upwards. He felt the prefect of studies touch it for a moment at the fingers to straighten it and then the swish of the sleeve of the soutane as the pandybat was lifted to strike. A hot burning stinging tingling glow like the loud crack of a broken stick made his trembling hand crumple together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the pain scalding tears were driven into his eyes. His whole body was shaking with fright, his arm was shaking and his crumpled burning livid hand shook like a loose leaf in the air. A cry sprang from his lips, a prayer to be let off. But though the tears scalded his eyes and his limbs quivered with pain and fright he held back the hot tears and the cry that scalded his throat.
— Other hand! shouted the prefect of studies.
Stephen drew back his maimed and quivering right arm and held out his left hand. The soutane sleeve swished again as the pandybat was lifted and a loud crashing sound and a fierce maddening tingling burning pain made his hand shrink together with the palms and fingers in a livid quivering mass. The scalding water burst forth from his eyes and, burning with shame and agony and fear, he drew back his shaking arm in terror and burst out into a whine of pain. His body shook with a palsy of fright and in shame and rage he felt the scalding cry come from his throat and the scalding tears falling out of his eyes and down his flaming cheeks.
— Kneel down, cried the prefect of studies.
Stephen knelt down quickly pressing his beaten hands to his sides. To think of them beaten and swollen with pain all in a moment made him feel so sorry for them as if they were not his own but someone else’s that he felt sorry for. And as he knelt, calming the last sobs in his throat and feeling the burning tingling pain pressed into his sides, he thought of his hands which he had held out in the air with the palms up and of the firm touch of the prefect of studies when he had steadied the shaking fingers and of the beaten swollen reddened mass of palm and fingers that shook helplessly in the air.
— Get at your work, all of you, cried the prefect of studies from the door. Father Dolan will be in every day to see if any boy, any lazy idle little loafer wants flogging. Every day. Every day.
The door closed behind him. James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is the eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it! And remember, it is an eternity of pain. Even though the pains of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet they would become infinite, as they were destined to last for ever ... To bear even the sting of an insect for all eternity would be a dread torment. What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all eternity! ibid.