God is dead. God remains dead.
And we have killed him.
Yet his shadow still looms.
How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?
What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives;
who will wipe this blood off us?
What water is there for us to clean ourselves?
Friedrich Nietzsche
The world was hers for the reading — Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
One must always be careful of books and what is inside them, for words have…
We tell ourselves stories in order to live — Joan Didion, The White Album