But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Lord ByronRead
The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Interpretation
This quote reflects on the loyalty of dogs and contrasts it with human vanity and self-importance.
Lord Byron's quote emphasizes the unwavering loyalty and devotion of dogs to their owners, portraying them as the truest friends who selflessly serve and protect. In contrast, it critiques human nature, highlighting how people often seek recognition and forgiveness, ultimately neglecting the pure and valuable qualities that animals possess, suggesting that while dogs may be unappreciated, their love and dedication are invaluable compared to human pretensions.
In practice
This quote could be used in a speech about animal rights to emphasize the loyalty of pets.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
Absence - that common cure of love.
Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Imagine the Creator as a low comedian, and at once the world becomes explicable.
This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days;--when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.
I think sports is one of the places where race plays itself out publicly. Although we pretend it doesn't.
Being a Humanist means trying to behave decently without expectation of rewards or punishment after you are dead.
Sometimes... sometimes I think the Asylum is a head. We're inside a huge head that dreams us all into being. Perhaps it's your head, Batman. Arkham is a looking glass... and we are you.
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