There is nothing in the least original about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs, the sex torn from the socket, the infant ripped from the womb, the brains dashed out against rock, nothing original about Judas, or Peter, or you or me: nothing: we are liars and cowards all, or nearly all, or nearly all the time: for we also ride the lightning, answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds, curl up on the floor of the sun, and pick our teeth with thunderbolts.
