Quotes
Quotes about God
"Arms, and the man I sing, who forc'ed by Fate, And haughty Juno's unrelenting Hate; Expell'ed and exil'd, left the Trojan Shoar: Long Labours, both by Sea and Land he bore; And in the doubtful War, before he won, the Latian realm, and built the destin'd Town: His banish'd gods restor'd to Rites Divine, and setl'd sure Succession in his line: From Whence the Race of Alban Fathers come, and the long Glories of Majestick Rome."
"O Goddess born! escape by timely flight, the Flames and horrors of this fatal night. The Foes already have possess'd the Wall. Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall." -Hector's Ghost
"Sleep'st thou, O Goddess born! and cans't thou drown thy needful cares, so near a Hostile town? ... Who knows what Hazards thy Delay may bring? Woman's a various and a changeful thing."-Mercury to Aeneas
He had got death over with, then. He was, in a sense, lucky. Perhaps posthumous life was better than the real thing. Oh God, yes, I remember Enderby, what a man. Eater, drinker, wencher, and such exotic adventures. You could go on living without all the trouble of still being alive. Your character got blurred and mingled with those of other dead men, wittier, handsomer, themselves more vital now that they were dead. And there was oneâs work, good or bad, but still a death-cheater. It wasnât death that was the that was the trouble, of course, it was dying.
Well, believing is neither here nor there, you know. I believe in God and so what? I donât believe in God and so what again? It doesnât affect his own position, does it?
But what happens when you die?â âYouâre finished withâ, Enderby said promptly. âDone for. And even if you werenât â well, you die then, gasp your last, then youâre sort of wandering, free of body. You wander around and then you come in contact with a sort of big thing. What is this big thing? God, if you like.â
On what God is like: Like a big symphony. The page of the score of infinite length, the number of instruments infinite but all bound into one big unity. This big symphony plays itself for ever and ever. And who listens to it? It listens to itself. Enjoys itself for ever and ever and ever. It doesnât give a bugger whether you hear it or not.
God doesnât have to be what people want sheit to be.
Do you deny that Godâs incredible benison was to make man free, if he wished, to offend him? That no greater love is conceivable than to leave the creature free to hate the creator.
On God: He scatters grace liberally and arbitrarily, so all men may hope.
A goddess is, by nature, half a whore
Why did goddesses select models of ugliness to build a home? Foils to their beauty?
God made his mind up, right from the beginning, that some were damned, some saved, and strictly what you did with life, saintly by choice or sinning, mattered to God not one benighted jot. You prosper? That probably means you're winning. You're losing, lost - the sudden voices shout it. You're lost, and nothing can be done about it.
For the day may come, some thousand years hence, when even the works of Ben Jonson will be read little, but the bright eyes of Ben Jonson will flash out here and there in a breathtaking felicity of phrase from the green Eden of God's own book that may never die.
God was good on the physical and emotional sides and a great one for hate. He generously spilled his own hate into his dearest creation.
Give us, for God's sake, a plain read.
God, are we really free or sick from birth with sap from the parent tree?
Life is one big punishment, but, thank God, we don't have to bear more than we want.
I believe the wrong God is temporarily ruling the world and that the true God has gone under
It is the godlike task of the novelist to create human beings whom we accept as living creatures filled with complexities and armed with ´free will
There is truly evil lying coiled in good; did not God create Lucifer and forknow the colour and heat of the light he was to bear?
Life is so, often grossly so, so that a playmaker feels himself to be a better contriver than God or Fate or who runs the mad world. The madness is in the brevity of time
It was the agony of knowing that it was departed, all, the insanity of former love, leaving behind this deadly godlike sobriety of self-pity
Gods and goddesses did not, after all, descend; they were immanent but rarely willing to emerge, they made themselves blind that they might not find a door too easily. But when they did find a door they might burn up the globe
Art at the last was between the artist and his god
