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
I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
Interpretation
By instilling fear of punishment, society may create more wrongdoers than it deters.
This quote by Lord Byron suggests that the fear of Hell, akin to the harsh laws imposed by society, can lead to the creation of evil rather than preventing it. Byron critiques human justice systems and religious beliefs, implying that creating fear can breed rebellion and wrongdoing instead of morality and virtue, thereby questioning the effectiveness and morality of using fear as a deterrent against evil actions.
In practice
A sermon discussing the nature of punishment and its effects on morality.
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.
In sinning, each man sins against all, and each man is at least partly guilt for another's sin. There is no isolated sin.
It's not very fashionable, but I love life, and I believe that things disappear and reappear and nothing ever solidifies, no matter how middle-class, housebroken, staid, and solitary someone's life seems to be. That, I think, is what I'm writing about.
Disgust with injustice may sharpen the desire for justice. Readers who donβt see this connection merely wish to be entertained, and I have neither skill nor desire to turn the agony of a people into entertainment.
Far away, I could hear them lapping up my brains. Like Macbeth's witches, the three lithe cats surrounded my broken head, slurping up that thick soup inside. The tips of their rough tongues licked the soft folds of my mind. And with each lick my consciousness flickered like a flame and faded away.
Language has no independent existence apart from the people who use it. It is not an end in itself; it is a means to an end of understanding who you are and what society is like.
Don't be mysterious; there isn't the time.
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