In great literature, I become a thousand different men but still remain myself.

The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That's the deal.

But of course these conjectures as to why God does what He does are probably of no more value than my dog's ideas of what I am up to when I sit and read.

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, hoever, turns out to be not a state but a process.

Nobody can always have devout feelings: and even if we could, feelings are not what God principally cares about.

My argument against God was that the universe seemed so cruel and unjust. But how had I got this idea of just and unjust? A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line. What was I comparing this universe with when I called it unjust?