A man is an angel that has gone deranged.

A perfect joke is somewhere between an angel and a fart.

The fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.

When angels go bad they are worse than anyone else. Remember Lucifer used to be an angel.

The Angel of Death is the invisible Angel of Life.

That terrible avenger, a perfect archangel of hatred.

Perfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and those who have it, appear angelic

There is an angel inside me whom I am constantly shocking.

A man is an angel that has become deranged, Joe Fernwright thought. Once they – all of them – had been genuine angels, and at that time they had had a choice between good and evil, so it was easy, easy being an angel. And then something happened. Something went wrong or broke down or failed. And they had become faced with the necessity of choosing not good or evil but the lesser of two evils, and so that had unhinged them and now each was a man.

Struck dead by an angel of God! Yet the angel must hang!

He is the Angel of Death. Life lasts long, save for him; populations would rise up like tidal waves and inundate worlds, save for him; criminals would require trials and sentencing, save for him; and of course history might reflect unnecessary twisting and turnings, save for the Angel of Death.

Beauty is given to dolls, majesty to haughty vixens, but mind, feeling, passion and the crowning grace of fortitude are the attributes of an angel.

An angel exists and works as an intelligence, and its state is one of beholding God ceaselessly, who is the object of its intellectual essence.

A beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his luminous wings in vain.