When Michelangelo finished the painting of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, he spent the rest of his life trying to remove the paint that had poured into his sleeve.

Nothing is sacred. Not even your own mother, not the Jewish martyrs, not even people starving of hunger. Laugh at everything, ferociously, bitterly, to exorcise the old monsters.

The great brainwave of the inventors of Christianity: God is love! And then? What does it change? You may always preach a god of love to men, they will make use of him to sanctify their villainies and their crimes for the good fight as well as the massacres en masse, blessing priests leading the way.

My dog is an atheist: he no longer believes in me.