“As Saint Paul says, marry or burn.”

“I am not a saint or a cripple,I am not a wound; now I will seewhether I am a coward.”

“I'm not senile," I snapped. "If I burn the house down it will be on purpose.”

“You think I'm not a goddess?Try me.This is a torch song.Touch me and you'll burn.”

“Besides, who would think of marrying a mothball? A question my mother put to me often, later, in other forms.”

“Who is to say that prayers have any effect? On the other hand, who is to say they don't? I picture the gods, diddling around on Olympus, wallowing in the nectar and ambrosia and the aroma of burning bones and fat, mischievous as a pack of ten-year-olds with a sick cat to play with and a lot of time on their hands. 'Which prayer shall we answer today?' they ask one another. 'Let's cast the dice! Hope for this one, despair for that one, and while we're at it, let's destroy the life of that woman over there by having sex with her in the form of a crayfish!' I think they pull a lot of their pranks because they're bored.”

“They say:Speak for us (to whom?)Some say: Avenge us (on whom?)Some say: Take our place.Some say: WitnessOthers say (and these are women)Be happy for us.”