“Religion was dangerous, anti-intellectual, a crutch for the masses, and a game for the foolish, the poor, and the hypocrites. (Jacques Miroux)”

“The Possibility of somebody emerging as a nuclear power or events happening that surprise us on the nuclear stage is still a possibility. It always will be because there's an awful lot going behind the scenes. Our intelligence just has to get better on the score. -Peter Goss.”

“What type of car do I get?" David asked. "As we like to say in the Middle East," Zalinsky said, "We'll blow up that bridge when we get to it.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.”

“Whatever you want too much you can't have, so when you really want something, try to want it a little less.”

“Everyone is a hypocrite in one sense or another and I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.”

“God In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled catTo him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more.But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze,Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,And he would weigh the heavier on those after.Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealthIs but his cunning to make death more hard.Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking.And he has made the market for your beautyToo poor to buy, although you die to sell.Only that he has never heard of sleep;And when the cats come out the rats are sly.Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawnBut he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful.Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lostOut of us, but it is as hair of us,And only in the hush no wind stirs it.And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.The fingers shut on voices that pass through,Where blind farewells are taken easily ....Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!”