Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men;
As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept
All by the name of dogs: the valued file
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
The housekeeper, the hunter, every one
According to the gift which bounteous nature
Hath in him closed.
Shakespeare in Macbeth
In my rare trips outside I observe the men around me. I feel like a mongrel compared to many of them.
I’m so short and frail and unhandsome…
When I look at girls or women I see my mongrel frame reflected in their eyes.
It makes me weep.
The hat doesn’t improve things that much.
The dalmatian has his spots, and they make him a fancy dog. But the mongrel can never earn permanent spots, no matter what he does.
Through hard work and discipline I might become a good writer some day, but never tall and beefy and handsome…
People, like dogs, are not born equal. And this hatted boy does not have good lineage.
That’s why he prefers his shadowy attic. No green eyes there to sadden him with their reflection…