We mourn the blossoms of May because they are to whither; but we know that May is one day to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops---which teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth of desolation, never to despair.
The child was slender as fleeting hope.
Her shoes were comfortable. They reflected her hope for the evening.
Perhaps evil is the crucible of goodness... and perhaps even Satan - Satan, in spite of himself - somehow serves to work out the will of God.
God never talks. But the devil keeps advertising, Father. The devil does a lot of commercials.
For I think belief in God is not a matter of reason at all; I think it finally is a matter of love.
As far as God goes, I _am_ a nonbeliever. Still am. But when it comes to a devil---well, that's something else.
Earth is a homicide victim. We lose our children. There are wars. Disease. And God comes strolling by like a cosmic Billie Burke.
I have never read horror, nor do I consider The Exorcist to be such, but rather as a suspenseful supernatural detective story, or paranormal police procedural.
And the sad truth is that nobody wants me to write comedy. The Exorcist not only ended that career, it expunged all memory of its existence.