There Is In All Artists A Little

I Love To Think Of The Whole Universe Together As One Eternal Fact. I Love To Think That Everything Is Alive; That Crystallization Is Itself A Step Toward Joy. I Love To Think That When A Bud Bursts Into Blossom: It Feels A Thrill. I Love To Have The Universe Full Of Feeling And Full Of Joy, And Not Full Of Simple Dead, Inert Matter, Managed By An Old Bachelor For All Eternity.

It Is Like Most Other Ancient Books - A Mingling Of Falsehood And Truth, Of Philosophy And Folly - All Written By Men, And Most Of The Men Only Partially Civilized. Some Of Its Laws Are Good - Some Infinitely Barbarous. None Of The Miracles Related Were Performed. . . . Take Out The Absurdities, The Miracles, All That Pertains To The Supernatural - All The Cruel And Barbaric Laws - And To The Remainder I Have No Objection. Neither Would I Have For It Any Great Admiration.

The Christians Say, That Among The Ancient Jews, If You Committed A Crime You Had To Kill A Sheep. Now They Say 'charge It.' 'put It On The Slate.' The Savior Will Pay It. In This Way, Rascality Is Sold On Credit, And The Credit System In Morals, As In Business, Breeds Extravagance.

We Have At Last Ascertained That Miracles Can Be Perfectly Understood; That There Is Nothing Mysterious About Them; That They Are Simply Transparent Falsehoods.

It Is An Old Habit With Theologians To Beat The Living With The Bones Of The Dead.