I love you,” he says, and the fact that he doesn’t makes it true. - John Updike

In asking forgiveness of women for our mythologizing of their bodies, for being unreal about them, we can only appeal to their own sexuality, which is different but not basically different, perhaps, from our own. For women, too, there seems to be that tangle of supplication and possessiveness, that descent toward infantile undifferentiation, that omnipotent helplessness, that merger with the cosmic mother-warmth, that flushed pulse- quickened leap into overestimation, projection, general mix-up.

Hope bases vast premises upon foolish accidents and reads a word where, in fact, only a scribble exists.

Religion enables us to ignore nothingness and get on with the jobs of life.