"Oh, on my experience."
"I wonder if we really matter at all to the rest of the scheme," Claire voiced.
"I am inclined to think not," replied Lawrence. "We matter only to ourselves, and what we can do with the universe around us."
"We matter to God, I think," said Philip. "I don't mean in the old accepted sense; but we must matter to Him in some way, perhaps as your statue here matters to you."
Lawrence chuckled weakly. "It mattered tremendously when I was doing it. Now it doesn't in the least matter. I shouldn't care if you burned it as firewood."
"But you must care," Claire protested, feeling that he was losing interest in his work because of her.
"I don't see why. I haven't any real assurance as to its value. It may be good, more likely it isn't; in any case, I have turned it loose to shift for itself. It can survive or not; its doing so is immaterial. Perhaps as immaterial as my existence is to the Great Artist who conceived the botched job called me."
"But, Lawrence, why insist that you don't matter to Him?"
"Oh, because I am scarcely aware of Him at all; indeed, I am not aware of Him, and I am sure He isn't aware of me."
"You have not any way to prove that," declared Philip.