"Do me one. Cross the hall—poke the bell—"
"Pray."
"You pray. Wear holes in the sky. Tell God you're coming, soon. And tell Him I am, too, while you're at it. See you there!"
When he was gone, I felt washed out.
Why had I bothered to try something that couldn't come off? Didn't I know the work I'd done—the hells I'd gone through to get my Inkling—would never tempt that fat bastard past the first six steps of a million rugged miles?
Houses on sand
paper roofs
putty pillars
no brains
What is conscience but fealty to truth?
What man can have good conscience if his beliefs conceal the smallest truth—or especially if they conceal himself from himself?
With honesty toward science—and toward the inner sciences—man and ethic are one.