All human love is a faint type of God's; An echoing note from a harmonious whole; A feeble spark from an undying flame; A single drop from an unfathomed sea: But God's is infinite; it fills the earth And heaven, and the broad, trackless realms of space.

Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become remote as is his destiny and not again in all the world's turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarous to try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man's will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay.

Hell ain't half full.

Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.

People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they don't deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things.

The core of literature is the idea of tragedy... You don't really learn much from the good things that happen to you.

This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair. That is my job.