When you die it's the same as if everybody else did too.

He believed in God even if he was doubtful of men's claims to know God's mind. But that a God unable to forgive was no God at all.

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place.

I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am.

The world was new each day for God so made it daily. Yet it contained within it all the evils as before, no more, no less.

Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.

Even the damned in hell have the community of their suffering.