If you wish to be loved, show more of your faults than your virtues.
Thank everyone who calls out your faults, your anger, your impatience, your
egotism; do this consciously, voluntarily.
-Jean Toomer, poet and novelist
(1894-1967)
Countless deaths have occurred because of observed differences between men. Unfathomable oceans of blood have been spilt because one man saw another to be evil, wrong, different, etc. Yet, it is a commonly accepted fact that no Earthly man is perfect. The world will know peace when we collectively look past the faults of our neighbors, and turn our eyes inward to the personal faults we must overcome.
Many of the faults you see in others, dear reader,
are your own nature reflected in them.
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.
O, happy the soul that saw its own faults.
The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live.
All blame is a waste of time. No matter how much fault you find with another, and regardless of how much you blame him, it will not change you. The only thing blame does is to keep the focus off you when you are looking for external reasons to explain your unhappiness or frustration. You may succeed in making another feel guilty about something by blaming him, but you won't succeed in changing whatever it is about you that is making you unhappy.
Forgive yourself for your faults and your mistakes and move on.
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.
When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told: Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious sorrow: but to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief; It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool'd: For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd: whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died to-day, 'This must be so.' We pray you, throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father: for let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our throne; And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son, Do I impart toward you.
They say the best men are molded out of faults and, for the most, become much more the better for being a little bad.
Every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.
A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, But in ourselves if we are underlings.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus Hath told Cæsar was ambitious; If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it. . . . . For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men. . . . . He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. . . . . When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff . . . . You all did love him once, not without cause.
Bernard Loomer's father was a sea captain. He was acquainted with his small place in an uncontrollable nature. In a talk in 1974 Loomer described his father's instructions about the uses of a baseball glove. The father had just overheard his son's sandlot complaints about the thinness of a glove inherited from his older brothers. When his father asked him what a baseball glove was for, young Loomer had said that it was to protect the hand. In the words of Bernard Loomer in his sixties, his father replied: Son, I never have played baseball, but it seems to me you ought to be able to catch the ball bare-handed. The way I look at it, you use a glove not to protect your hand, but to give you a bigger hand to help catch balls that are more difficult to reach. I assume that in this as in all walks of life there are tricks to the trade. I suggest you learn how to catch with that glove for two reasons. First, because you are not going to get another one, and second, because you don't need protection from life. You need a glove to give you a bigger hand to catch baseballs you might otherwise miss. As the decade of the 1970s progressed, Loomer reflected increasingly on the fact that what you might otherwise miss [in theology] was irrational, even evil, but [that it] must be caught anyway. Loomer grew increasingly dissatisfied with those who seemed to restrict their reach-even Whitehead was faulted. And increasingly it appeared that Christian theology was the theology Loomer had-that he was not going to get another one-and so, although it was thin in places, he attempted to use the one theology he had, to catch all he could. [This] suggests the meaning of Loomer's special term, "size." Size signifies "the volume of life you can take into your being and still maintain your integrity."
England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
You ruined my life. I lost my wife, my kid, my work. I lost everything all because of a little bad luck. You gotta pay for that man, you gotta pay. Otherwise there's no justice in this world, otherwise it's all meaningless. You can't just do something, and then pretend you didn't, that it didn't happen, that somehow you weren't involved. You were, you did. It's your fault. And now you gotta die for it.
A man's poor reputation may be the fault of others - but not his poor character.
Love your friend with his faults.
Our chief wisdom consists in knowing our follies and faults, so that we may correct them.
