Paolo Veronese, The Adoration of the Magi, 1571 (source)
Attending to attentive canine figures in half a dozen paintings by Paolo Veronese, Thomas W. Laqueur explores the work of an artist whose love of dogs landed him in hot water with the Inquisition (and here)…
The art historian Kenneth Clark thought that Veronese was “the greatest dog lover of the Renaissance”. We have absolutely no biographical evidence to support this claim but we do have the evidence of numbers: there are a great many dogs in Veronese’s paintings. And Clark could have gotten support of a different kind from the great nineteenth-century critic John Ruskin. For Ruskin, Veronese’s dogs had a distinctive moral and social quality, which was especially prominent in one particular painting: Cupid with Two Dogs, a “great heroic poem”. Here, he wrote, two dogs are represented with the “highest, or spiritual view” of their nature: two magnificent mastiffs, “wildest of beasts perhaps they would have been by nature”. Between them is a beautiful boy, “golden quivered” — who represents, Ruskin thought, human love — holding the great beasts by a chain in his hands.
Paolo Veronese, Cupid with Two Dogs, 1580, a “great heroic poem” (source)
Love conquers savagery is how Ruskin interpreted the painting. But perhaps Cupid serves less as a stand-in for love (and its unpredictable nature) and more as a caretaker for these spectacular dogs, known for their steadfastness, who speak to a different kind of amorous union: one as faithful as dogs are to humans. The animals’ allegorical meaning, whatever it is, seems to me less important than the sweet intimacy with which the dogs are painted, grounded in their gaze and their sheer benign weightiness. The one on the right looks quizzically and seductively out at us; the other, the more relaxed one on the left, looks with Cupid toward the painter outside the frame. Perhaps contemporary viewers would have seen them as having been once the “wildest of beasts” but they seem very far from that now.
Visually they are the stars of the show in their almost psychedelically painted black-on-white spotted fur, their red tongues and glistening eyes like points of light. The curves of their backs frame the bathed, soft flesh of the Cupid figure; the leg of the dog on the left is intertwined with his leg — he is astride of it — and touches the left paw of the other dog. All this in a severely constrained space, a vignette, that stands at one end of a scale, with Veronese’s great theatrical scenes (and their dogs) at the other. This is a formally virtuosic painting, whatever else it is about or means, about dogs, doggishness, and the gaze. It would be a surprise, given his careful attention, if Veronese did not in fact love dogs…
[Laqueur considers other s of Veronese’s dogs…]
… We in fact have almost no documentary evidence why any painter, and Veronese in particular, was interested in thinking with dogs. But we do in his case have a tantalizing small hint because on July 18, 1573, he was called before the Inquisition to answer questions about one of his paintings, specifically about a dog that figures prominently, front and centre.
The Inquisitor asked if he had any idea why he had been summoned. Veronese replied that he did not although he speculated it might have been because the Inquisitors had summoned the Prior of San Giovani e Paulo who had commissioned a “Last Supper” from him as a replacement for a Titian on the same subject and “ordered him to have painted [in the picture] a Magdalen in place of a dog”. It had been more than three months since the painting had been finished; the dog was still there; no penitent prostitute had been added. Veronese confessed, that he had not done what they had ordered the Prior to order him to do. He told the Inquisitor that he would gladly do “everything necessary for my honour and for that of my painting”, but that he did “not understand how a figure of Magdalen would be suitable there.”
He had every reason not to understand. It is generally accepted that the painting in question was intended to be, as requested by the monastery, a Last Supper; we can identify it from all the detailed questions the Inquisitors asked and from its subsequent history. He might himself have caused some confusion by saying the painting was of the “Last Supper that Jesus Christ took with His Apostles in the House of Simon” when the Inquisitor asked what picture he was speaking about, although the Last Supper was neither at the house of Simon the Pharisee where the Magdalen story took place (Luke 7:36–50) nor of Simon the Leper (Mark 14:3–9) and Matthew 26:6–13) where Mary anointed Jesus. Veronese made no pretence in any of his feast scenes or other religious painting of faithfully illustrating a text. He was not unusual in this regard.
This was also not a Galileo moment: dogs in religious paintings did not threaten the teachings of the Church; there are plenty of them in paintings of The Last Supper. And they would be particularly appropriate in a commission from a Dominican monastery because of their well-known association with the order’s founder, St Dominic de Guzman. A black dog had announced to the saint’s mother “that she would bear in her womb a dog who, with a burning torch in his mouth and leaping from her womb, seemed to set the whole earth on fire”.6 She named her son after St Dominic of Silo, who had interceded on her behalf when she had failed to conceive. A dog with a torch in its mouth had already become in the late Middle Ages an iconographical sign for her son, the saint, in painting and sculpture for the order named after him and a logo until this day also for parishes named after the order’s founder. Everyone would know this. And, either in response to this story or independently much was made already in the Middle Ages of how the name of the order in Latin — Dominicanus — could easily be repurposed as Domini canis (“Dogs of the Lord”): dogs as the doppelgängers of the monks themselves, scurrying around corralling souls as in Andrea di Bonaiuto’s 1365 fresco Allegory of the Active and Triumphant Church.
But the problem was not, as Veronese first guessed, the presence of a dog instead of a Magdalen. In fact, he was not summoned in front of the Venetian Inquisition for heresy or even dubious iconography, although that charge was the ostensible subject of his trial. Veronese was collateral damage of local ecclesiastical politics, caught up in a struggle between Rome and Venice. The Inquisitor needed to prove himself to a new papal nuncio. In the context of the Counter-Reformation this painting could be construed as suspicious because of its indisputable theatrical extravagance; the Council of Trent had charged bishops with making sure that religious paintings were appropriately decorous and true to text.
Veronese’s only defence against this sort of attack — in addition to trying to claim he was no worse than Michelangelo in allowing his imagination full play — was a version of art for art’s sake: “We painters take the same licence the poets and the jesters take”. He filled the vast space of the canvas appropriately as his imagination dictated: his job was “to create the painting as I thought fit, it was large and could accommodate numerous figures”: “figures as ornaments, of my own invention”. The Inquisitor would have none of this. Everything in appropriate religious art, he was told, everything “befits the spiritual — there are no jesters, no dogs, no weapons, or any such silliness [as in yours]”. Veronese was ordered to “correct the painting” within three months.
In fact, all he did was put in a label where before there had been none. It read in the Latin of the Vulgate “Et fecit ei convivium magnum Levi in domo sua” (“Levi made the Lord a Great Feast”, Luke 5:29). A new name transformed Veronese’s Last Supper, in which soldiers and dogs and jesters might be regarded as sacrilegious and disrespectful, into a painting of a relatively obscure dinner with tax collectors and a great company of publicans at a rich man’s house to which Jesus had been invited. The Feast in the House of Levi, as the painting was now called, remained in the refectory of the priory for which it had been painted, watching over the monks as they ate, until it was moved to the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Venice in the nineteenth century.
Veronese, The Feast in the House of Levi (detail), 1573 (source)
* Martin Luther (speaking of his dog Tölpel [German for “klutz”]) in “Table Talk No. 2803” (1531), in Tischreden, vol. 3 (Weimar: Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1914) (author’s translation)
Hate is often described as an emotion, but it is actually a learned behavior. Unlike fear, sadness, or love—emotions that are instinctive and universal—hate does not exist independently. It is shaped by fear, anger, stress, and social conditioning, developing over time rather than emerging naturally. Hate can be directed at people, ideas, or entire groups, influencing individuals and societies in ways that range from casual dislike to extreme violence. But if hate is learned, can it be unlearned? To break the cycle, we must understand how hate forms, how it manifests in our language and actions, and what we can do to replace it with something better.
The word “hate” has deep historical roots, originating from the Old English hatian, meaning “to despise” or “to wish evil upon.” It stems from the Proto-Germanic hatajan and the Proto-Indo-European kad, which means “to grieve” or “to suffer.” This connection suggests that hate was initially tied to pain, not necessarily hostility.
Over time, its meaning evolved. Today, people use “hate” casually—saying things like “I hate traffic” or “I hate Mondays”—to express mild annoyance. On social media, phrases like “haters gonna hate” trivialize the concept, making it seem inevitable and dismissing criticism as a product of jealousy or negativity.
But the same word is also used to describe serious moral opposition, such as “I hate injustice” or “I hate oppression.” In its most dangerous form, hate leads to profound social and political divisions, fueling discrimination, violence, and even war. While language shapes how we perceive hate, the real question is why it develops in the first place.
If hate isn’t an emotion, what is it? At its core, hate is a response to fear, stress, and anger. It is reinforced through experience, social pressure, and cultural narratives. Hate is not something we are born with—it is something we learn.
Fear plays a significant role. People often hate what they don’t understand or perceive as a threat. This is why xenophobia and racial prejudice exist. The unfamiliar makes people uncomfortable, and in that discomfort, hate is cultivated.
Stress and anger also fuel hate. When individuals feel powerless, overwhelmed, or frustrated, they search for something to blame. Hate becomes a means to direct negative emotions outward. This is evident in scapegoating, where specific groups are held responsible for economic hardship, crime, or societal decline.
The us vs. them mentality fuels hatred. Humans are inherently tribal, creating groups based on identity—race, nationality, religion, or ideology. This fosters the belief that our group is superior while viewing their group as the enemy. Hatred deepens this divide, making it easier to rationalize discrimination and violence.
Personal experience can turn resentment into hate. A betrayal, ongoing mistreatment, or a history of injustice can lead someone to develop deep-seated hostility. In many cases, what starts as personal pain becomes generalized toward an entire group, reinforcing division cycles.
Hate is also learned. From childhood, individuals absorb beliefs from family, media, and society. When a child grows up in an environment that demonizes certain groups, that perspective often becomes deeply ingrained. This is why racism, sexism, and religious intolerance persist across generations.
Finally, the internet has amplified hate like never before. Social media allows people to express extreme views without accountability. Hate spreads through online mobs, echo chambers, and misinformation, making it more difficult to challenge false narratives and prejudices.
Hate is destructive not just to its targets but also to those who hold it. It consumes energy, distorts reality, and fosters resentment. Research shows that people who cling to hate experience higher levels of stress, anxiety, and even physical health issues. Hate undermines mental and emotional well-being.
On a larger scale, hate causes social division. It tears families apart, fuels political and racial tensions, and makes it nearly impossible for societies to progress together. Hate-driven violence—including hate crimes, terrorism, and genocide—has tragically shaped history, demonstrating that unchecked hatred leads to devastating consequences. However, if hate is learned, it can also be unlearned. The cycle is not inevitable.
The first step in breaking free from hate is awareness. Recognizing that hate is not an emotion, but a response driven by fear, stress, and conditioning allows us to question the origins of our biases. Education plays a crucial role in this process. Exposure to diverse cultures, perspectives, and ideas challenges misconceptions and diminishes fear.
Challenging stereotypes is another powerful tool. Many forms of hate are based on false generalizations. Real-life interactions with people from different backgrounds help dissolve these misconceptions and build bridges instead of walls.
Empathy is the most potent antidote to hate. When we take the time to understand another person’s experiences, it becomes difficult to hold onto hostility. Compassion takes the place of resentment when we realize that those we dislike have struggles, dreams, and fears just like our own.
Letting go of hate requires emotional regulation. Practicing mindfulness, engaging in therapy, or using basic stress management techniques can help individuals break free from cycles of anger and resentment. Though challenging, forgiveness often serves as the key to moving forward.
Constructive dialogue is essential. Many people avoid discussions about complex topics because they fear conflict. But avoiding conversation only deepens the divide. Engaging in open, respectful discussions about race, politics, and ideology can break down barriers and create understanding.
We all share the responsibility of taking action against hate. This can be as simple as opposing discrimination when we see it or supporting organizations that work to dismantle hate. Every act of kindness, every moment of patience, and every attempt to understand another perspective contributes to a world with less hate.
Hate is neither an emotion nor an instinct—it is a habit, a behavior, a learned response. It represents a destructive way of thinking. Just like any habit, it can be changed. While it may feel powerful in the moment, hate ultimately weakens the person who harbors it. It isolates, consumes, and destroys. But we have a choice. Instead of hate, we can choose curiosity. Instead of division, we can select understanding. Instead of anger, we can opt for growth. The opposite of hate isn’t necessarily love—it’s the willingness to listen, learn, and let go. That is something every single one of us can strive for…
As we look beyond loathing, we might recall that it was on this date in 1492 that the joint Catholic Monarchs of Spain (Isabella I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon, the patrons of Columbis) issued and “executive order” commanding the expulsion of practising Jews from the Crowns of Castile and Aragon and its territories and possessions within four months, by July 31 of that year– the Alhambra Decree (AKA, the Edict of Expulsion). It had been strongly advocated by the Inquisitor General of Spain, Tomás de Torquemada, “the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the saviour of his country, the honor of his order,” per Spanish chronicler Sebastián de Olmedo. Subsequent history has been less kind. By virtue of his approval, even advocacy, of practices including torture and burning at the stake, his name has become synonymous with cruelty, religious intolerance, and fanaticism.
[Last] week at the Paris AI summit, Vice President JD Vance stood before heads of state and tech titans and said, “When conferences like this convene to discuss a cutting edge technology, oftentimes, I think, our response is to be too self-conscious, too risk-averse. But never have I encountered a breakthrough in tech that so clearly calls us to do precisely the opposite.”
Precisely the opposite of “too risk-averse” would seem to be “not risk-averse enough.” Or maybe, as both ChatGPT and Anthropic’s Claude said when asked for the opposite of “too risk-averse”: “too risk-seeking” or “reckless.” In any event, most people in the AI safety community would agree that such terms capture the Trump administration’s approach to AI regulation. And that includes people who generally share Trump’s and Vance’s laissez faire intuitions. AI researcher Rob Miles posted a video of Vance’s speech on X and commented, “It’s so depressing that the one time when the government takes the right approach to an emerging technology, it’s for basically the only technology where that’s actually a terrible idea.”
The news for AI safety advocates gets worse: The summit’s overall vibe wasn’t all that different from Vance’s. The host, French President Emmanuel Macron, after announcing a big AI infrastructure investment, said that France is “back in the AI race” and that “Europe and France must accelerate their investments.” European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen vowed to “accelerate innovation” and “cut red tape” that now hobbles innovators. China and the US may be the world’s AI leaders, she granted, but “the AI race is far from being over.” All of this sat well with the corporate sector. As Axios reported, “A range of tech leaders, including Google CEO Sundar Pichai and Mistral CEO Arthur Mensch, used their speeches to push the acceleration mantra.”
Seems like only yesterday Sundar Pichai was emphasizing the need for international regulation, saying that AI, for all its benefits, holds great dangers. But, actually, that was back in 2023, when people like Open AI’s Sam Altman were also saying such things. That was the year world leaders convened in Britain’s Bletchley Park to discuss ways to collectively address AI risks, including catastrophic ones. The idea was to hold annual global summits on the international governance of AI. In theory, the Paris summit was the third of these (after the 2024 summit in Seoul). But you should always read the fine print: Whereas the official name of the first summit was “AI Safety Summit,” this year’s version was “AI Action Summit.” The headline over the Axios story was: “Don’t miss out” replaces “doom is nigh” at Paris’ AI summit.
The statement that came out of the summit did call for AI “safety” (along with “sustainable development, innovation,” and many other virtuous things). But there was no elaboration. Nothing, for example, about preventing people from using AIs to help make bioweapons—the kind of problem you’d think would call for international regulation, since pandemics don’t recognize national borders (and the kind of problem that some knowledgeable observers worry has been posed by OpenAI’s recently released Deep Research model).
MIT physicist Max Tegmark tweeted on Monday that a leaked draft of the summit statement seemed “optimized to antagonize both the US government (with focus on diversity, gender and disinformation) and the UK government (completely ignoring the scientific and political consensus around risks from smarter-than-human AI systems that was agreed at the Bletchley Park Summit).” And indeed, Britain and the US refused to sign the statement. The other 60 attending nations, including China, signed it.
Journalist Shakeel Hashim wrote about the world’s journey from Bletchley Park to Paris: “What was supposed to be a crucial forum for international cooperation has ended as a cautionary tale about how easily serious governance efforts can be derailed by national self-interest.” But, he said, the Paris Summit may have value “as a wake-up call. It has shown, definitively, that the current approach to AI governance is broken. The question now is whether we have time to fix it.”…
As we prioritize prudence, we might spare a thought for Giordano Bruno; he died on this date in 1600. A philosopher, poet, alchemist, astrologer, cosmological theorist, and esotericist (occultist), his theories anticipated modern science. The most notable of these were his theories of the infinite universe and the multiplicity of worlds, in which he rejected the traditional geocentric (or Earth-centred) astronomy and intuitively went beyond the Copernican heliocentric (sun-centred) theory, which still maintained a finite universe with a sphere of fixed stars. Although one of the most important philosophers of the Italian Renaissance, Bruno’s various passionate utterings led to intense opposition. In 1592, after a trial by the Roman Inquisition, he was kept imprisoned for eight years and interrogated periodically. When, in the end, he refused to recant, he was burned at the stake in Rome for heresy.
This map shows a slice of our Universe. It was created from astronomical data taken night after night over a period of 15 years using a telescope in New Mexico, USA. We are located at the bottom. At the top is the actual edge of the observable Universe. In between, we see about 200,000 galaxies.
Each tiny dot is a galaxy. About 200,000 are shown with their actual position and color. Each galaxy contains billions of stars and planets. We are located at the bottom. Our galaxy, the Milky Way, is just a dot. Looking up, we see that space is filled with galaxies forming a global filamentary structure. Far away from us (higher up in the map), the filaments become harder to see…
As we explore, we might recall that it was on this date in 1616 that The Minutes of the Roman Inquisition recorded the conclusion that Galileo’s writings in support of Copernicus’ heliocentric view of the solar system were “foolish and absurd in philosophy, and formally heretical since it explicitly contradicts in many places the sense of Holy Scripture.” The next day, Galileo was called before Cardinal Bellarmine, who (on Pope Paul V’s instruction) ordered Galileo to abandon the teaching. Shortly thereafter, Copernicus’s De Revolutionibus and other heliocentric works were banned (entered onto the Index Librorum Prohibitorum) “until correction.”
Sixteen years later, Galileo “published” Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems (Dialogo sopra i due massimi sistemi del mondo)– that’s to say, he presented the first copy to his patron, Ferdinando II de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany. Dialogue, which compared the heliocentric Copernican and the traditional geo-centric Ptolemaic systems, was an immediate best-seller.
While there was no copyright available to Galileo, his book was printed and distributed under a license from the Inquisition. Still, the following year it was deemed heretical– and he joined Copernicus on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum: the publication of anything else Galileo had written or ever might write was also banned… a ban that remained in effect until 1835.
Mary, Queen of Scots wrote 57 encrypted messages during her captivity in England; until recently, all but 7 of them were believed lost. Meilan Solly tells the tale of their discovery and decryption…
Over the course of her 19 years in captivity, Mary, Queen of Scots, wrote thousands of letters to ambassadors, government officials, fellowmonarchs and conspirators alike. Most of these missives had the same underlying goal: securing the deposed Scottish queen’s freedom. After losing her throne in 1567, Mary had fled to England, hoping to find refuge at her cousin Elizabeth I’s court. (Mary’s paternal grandmother, Margaret Tudor, was the sister of Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII.) Instead, the English queen imprisoned Mary, keeping her under house arrest for nearly two decades before ordering her execution in 1587.
Mary’s letters have long fascinated scholars and the public, providing a glimpse into her relentless efforts to secure her release. But the former queen’s correspondence often raises more questions than it answers, in part because Mary took extensive steps to hide her messages from the prying eyes of Elizabeth’s spies. In addition to folding the pages with a technique known as letterlocking, she employed ciphers and codes of varying complexity.
More than 400 years after Mary’s death, a chance discovery by a trio of code breakers is offering new insights into the queen’s final years. As the researchers write in the journal Cryptologia, they originally decided to examine a cache of coded notes housed at the National Library of France as part of a broader push to “locate, digitize, transcribe, decipher and analyze” historic ciphers. Those pages turned out to be 57 of Mary’s encrypted letters, the majority of which were sent to Michel de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England, between 1578 and 1584. All but seven were previously thought to be lost…
* Jim Sanborn, the sculptor who created the encrypted Kryptos sculpture at CIA headquarters
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As we crack codes, we might spare a thought for a rough contemporary of Mary’s, a man who refused to communicate in code: Giordano Bruno. A Dominican friar, philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer whose concept of the infinite universe expanded on Copernicus’s model, he was the first European to understand the universe as a continuum where the stars we see at night are identical in nature to the Sun. Bruno’s views were considered dangerously heretical by the (Roman) Inquisition, which imprisoned him in 1592; after eight years of refusals to recant, on this date in 1600, he was burned at the stake.
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