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.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me, but let us part fair foes; I do believe, though I have found them not, that there may be words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, and virtues which are merciful, or weave snares for the failing: I would also deem o'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; that two, or one, are almost what they seem, that goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects a deep skepticism toward the world and human nature while still holding onto the hope of finding sincerity and goodness.
In this quote, Lord Byron expresses a disillusionment with the world and its inhabitants, suggesting that he has not experienced a genuine connection with it or them. Despite this cynicism, he holds onto a belief that there exists authenticity in words, true hopes, and merciful virtues. Byron acknowledges the prevalence of suffering and the complexity of human emotions, yet he dares to imagine that not everything is as it seems, emphasizing the dichotomy between perceived goodness and real happiness.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
In a philosophy class discussion on the nature of happiness and morality.
More from Lord Byron
All quotes →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.
Similar quotes
Ideology knows the answer before the question has been asked. Principles are something different: a set of values that have to be adapted to circumstances but not compromised away.
The true hypocrite is the one who ceases to perceive his deception, the one who lies with sincerity.
The being without an opinion is so painful to human nature that most people will leap to a hasty opinion rather than undergo it.
I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
A cat won't curry favor even if it's in their best interests to do so. A cat can't be a hypocrite. If more preachers were like cats, this would be a more religious country.
For pain words are lacking. There should be cries, cracks, fissures, whiteness passing over chintz covers, interference with the sense of time, of space ; the sense also of extreme fixity in passing objects ; and sounds very remote and then very close ; flesh being gashed and blood sparting, a joint suddenly twisted - beneath all of which appears something very important, yet remote, to be just held in solitude.” — Virginia Woolf, The Waves