“Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.”

“I’ve met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, “Why?”Why did I cause so much pain?Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God’s got this all wrong.We are not special.We are not crap or trash, either.We just are.We just are, and what happens just happens.And God says, “No, that’s not right.”Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.”

“You can't really teach a kid anything: you can only show him the way and motivate him to learn it himself.”

“Never do anything that you can't admit doing, because if you are that ashamed of whatever it is, it's probably wrong.”

“Yeah, I know. I was a jerk. An idiot. You can't say anything to me that I haven't already said to myself.”

“But you can't teach writing, people tell me. And I say, 'Who the hell are you, God's dean of admissions?”