If I go out to a house and it's half empty I prefer to think

In the words of Les Dennis, spoken with the humility of one who has known both applause and silence, we hear a lesson both simple and profound: “If I go out to a house and it’s half empty I prefer to think it’s half full. And I trust people. Even if it all goes wrong you go again.” This is not merely the philosophy of an entertainer, but the creed of a soul who has walked through triumph and failure, and yet chooses to rise each time. It is the wisdom of endurance, the spirit of optimism, and the faith that life, though uncertain, is worth meeting with open hands.

When he says he prefers to see the half-full house, he reveals the ancient art of perspective. The world may present itself in scarcity, in absence, in lack—but the wise choose to see what is, not what is missing. The ancients taught this through parables: a poor man may rejoice in one loaf of bread, while a rich man despairs of his missing banquet. Thus the heart, not the circumstance, determines whether we live in abundance or in want. To see the glass, or the room, or the life as “half full” is to train the soul in gratitude, and gratitude is the root of joy.

The second part of his creed is trust in people. Many, wounded by betrayal, choose suspicion as their shield. But suspicion corrodes; it isolates the heart and turns fellowship into rivalry. Les Dennis speaks instead of choosing trust, even knowing it may sometimes bring disappointment. This is a heroic act, for to trust is to be vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to risk pain. Yet without trust, no community, no friendship, no love can endure. The ancients said: “Better to be deceived once than to harden the heart forever.” Trust, though it may falter, nourishes the soil from which true bonds grow.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, who, during the dark days of America’s Civil War, filled his cabinet with men who had once opposed and even despised him. He chose to trust that they could rise above rivalry for the sake of the nation. Some mocked his choice, yet his “team of rivals” became his strength. Though not all remained loyal, enough did to preserve the Union. Lincoln’s trust, like Dennis’s, was not naïve but courageous—a belief that even amid failure, one must try again, for only in trying can peace or unity be born.

The last note in Dennis’s words is the most stirring: “Even if it all goes wrong you go again.” Here is the voice of resilience, the anthem of perseverance. All human lives face disappointment—plans that crumble, ventures that fail, relationships that wound. The coward retreats forever, but the brave rise once more. The ancients told of the phoenix, consumed in flame yet rising renewed from its ashes. So too must the human spirit embrace renewal, refusing to be defined by a single defeat. Each attempt is not wasted, for it shapes character, strengthens resolve, and brings wisdom.

Thus the lesson stands clear: live with gratitude, practice trust, and embrace resilience. See not the emptiness, but the fullness of what is before you. Choose to believe in others, even knowing some will betray, for the reward of true fellowship outweighs the cost of disappointment. And when you fall, rise again; when you are broken, rebuild; when the house is half empty, sing as though it were full. In this way, you will live not as a victim of fate, but as a master of spirit.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: let your eyes be trained to find the light even in darkness, let your heart be open to others even when risk is near, and let your spirit be steadfast in rising after every fall. For life is not measured in victories alone, but in the courage to continue. And when your days are done, may others say of you: here was one who always saw the fullness, who trusted, who rose again. That, truly, is the mark of a life well lived.