There's many a man who never tells his adventures, for he can't hope to be believed. - Arthur Conan Doyle

It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its teacher.

The whole doctrine of original sin, the Fall, the vicarious atonement, the placation of the Almighty by blood—all this is abhorrent to me. The spirit-guides do not insist upon these aspects of religion.

I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the duncoloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material?