Under the midnight sun, despair acquires the intensity of sex, insomnia the vehemence of art. - James Morrow

And what are you?"
"Me? I knew God was dead even before the corpse showed up.

What really got under Londa’s skin, I soon learned, was not the Messiah’s sermon per se but the discontinuity between its sublime directives and the ignominious course of Western history, a spectacle that, the more we thought about it, increasingly struck Londa and me as largely a fancy-dress danse macabre, Titus Andronicus on a hemispheric and ultimately global scale, though I hastened to point out that the chronicles of other civilizations were likewise awash in blood. What had gone wrong? She wanted to know. When and why had the teachings of Jesus Christ become an optional component of Christianity?

Curse God, and die. To George it seemed like remarkably sage and relevant advice.