The Problem Of Pretending To Be Alive.

I Had To Touch You With My Hands, I Had To Taste You With My Tongue; One Can't Love And Do Nothing.

With Your Great Schemes, You Ruin Our Happiness Like A Harvester Ruins A Mouse's Nest: I Hate You, God, I Hate You As Though You Existed.

Our Heroes Are Simple: They Are Brave, They Tell The Truth, They Are Good Swordsmen And They Are Never In The Long Run Really Defeated. That Is Why No Later Books Satisfy Us Like Those Which Were Read To Us In Childhood - For Those Promised A World Of Great Simplicity Of Which We Knew The Rules, But The Later Books Are Complicated And Contradictory With Experience; They Are Formed Out Of Our Own Disappointing Memories.

I Wish Sometimes You Had A Few Bad Motives, You Might Understand A Little More About Human Beings.

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.