O!, many a shaft at random sent Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word at random spoken May soothe, or wound, a heart that 's broken!
If you know somebody is going to be awfully annoyed by something you write, that's obviously very satisfying, and if they howl with rage or cry, that's honey.
I love it when someone insults me. That means I don't have to be nice anymore.
Oppression is more easily endured than insult.
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
He thought of trying to explain something he had recently noticed about himself: that if anyone insulted him, or one of his friends, he didn't really mind--or not much, anyway. Whereas if anyone insulted a novel, a story, a poem that he loved, something visceral and volcanic occurred within him. He wasn't sure what this might mean--except perhaps that he had got life and art mixed up, back to front, upside down.
This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.
The game of science can accurately be described as a never-ending insult to human intelligence.
Rebukes are easy from our betters, From men of quality and letters;But when low dunces will affront,What man alive can stand the brunt?http://www.netpoets.com/classic/poems/062008.htm
The bottom line is, insults only hurt when they come from someone I respect.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
We should be careful of the insults we fling at others, lest they return and land at our feet, newly minted to apply to those who had first coined them.
But I would never insult the people that love this music and I would never insult the blessing of music in my life and I would never insult myself by playing uninspired music.
I have met a lot of hardboiled eggs in my time, but you're twenty minutes.
Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
It was expected, however, that [Erasmus] should make some reply and give some definition. But instead, by availing himself of a rhetorical transition, he drags us who knew nothing of rhetoric away with him, as if the matter at issue here were of no moment, but simply a lot of quibbling, and dashes bravely out of the crowded court, crowned with ivy and laurel.
One insult pocketed soon produces another
a quite novel kind of grammar and logic, according to which what is something is nothing
Now I know from this very word and deed of yours what free choice is and is capable of, namely, madness.
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