Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.

What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?

What feeds me destroys me.

We control fifty percent of a relationship. We influence one hundred percent of it.

Things that are not at all, are never lost.

All places are alike, and every earth is fit for burial.

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham'd, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.