He Was Like A Child With Haemophilia:

The Economy Of A Novelist Is A Little Like That Of A Careful Housewife Who Is Unwilling To Throw Away Anything That Might Perhaps Serve Its Turn.

Men Have Prayed In Prison, Men Have Prayed In Slums And Concentration Camps. It's Only The Middle Class Who Demand To Pray In Suitable Surroundings.

Its Typical Of Mexico, Of The Whole Human Race Perhaps — Violence In Favour Of An Ideal And Then The Ideal Lost But The Violence Just Going On.

How Often The Priest Had Heard The Same Confession--man Was So Limited: He Hadn't Even The Ingenuity To Invent A New Vice: The Animals Knew As Much. It Was For This World That Christ Had Died: The More Evil You Saw And Heard About You, The Greater The Glory Lay Around The Death; It Was Too Easy To Die For What Was Good Or Beautiful, For Home Or Children Or Civilization--it Needed A God To Die For The Half-hearted And The Corrupt.

I Could Never Have Been A Pacifist. To Kill A Man Was Surely To Grant Him An Immeasurable Benefit. Oh Yes, People Always, Everywhere, Loved Their Enemies. It Was Their Friends They Preserved For Pain And Vacuity.