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The people who really run organizations are usually found several levels down, where it’s still possible to get things done.
Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.
Gods don’t like people not doing much work. People who aren’t busy all the time might start to think.
You couldn’t put off the inevitable. Because sooner or later, you reached the place when the inevitable just went and waited.
it can’t be just him who believes in me. Really in me. Not in a pair of golden horns. Not in a great big building. Not in the dread of hot iron and knives. Not in paying your temple dues because everyone else does. Just in the fact that the Great God Om really exists.
Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues. And wine made out of water! A mere quantum-mechanistic tunnel effect, that’d happen anyway if you were prepared to wait zillions of years. As if the turning of sunlight into wine, by means of vines and grapes and time and enzymes, wasn’t a thousand times more impressive and happened all the time . . .
The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote.* Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
“Slave is an Ephebian word. In Om we have no word for slave,” said Vorbis. “So I understand,” said the Tyrant. “I imagine that fish have no word for water.”
There was also a man, sweeping the floor. “Um,” said Brutha. “Are you a slave?” “Yes, master.” “That must be terrible.” The man leaned on his broom. “You’re right. It’s terrible. Really terrible. D’you know, I only get one day off a week?” Brutha, who had never heard the words “day off” before, and who was in any case unfamiliar with the concept, nodded uncertainly.
People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure.”
‘Around the Godde there forms a Shelle of prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priestes and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies. Ande this maye notte be noticed.’”
“Life in this world,” he said, “is, as it were, a sojourn in a cave. What can we know of reality? For all we see of the true nature of existence is, shall we say, no more than bewildering and amusing shadows cast upon the inner wall of the cave by the unseen blinding light of absolute truth, from which we may or may not deduce some glimmer of veracity, and we as troglodyte seekers of wisdom can only lift our voices to the unseen and say, humbly, ‘Go on, do Deformed Rabbit . . . it’s my favorite.’”
“Just because you can explain it doesn’t mean it’s not still a miracle.”
Do unto others before they do unto you.”
You can’t inspire people with facts. They need a cause. They need a symbol.”
That’s why gods die. They never believe in people.
You Can’t Use Weakness As A Weapon. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Men should die for lies. But the truth is too precious to die for.”
You can die for your country or your people or your family, but for a god you should live fully and busily, every day of a long life.”
Om watched them go, too. And then he was alone, except for the thousands watching him, crammed around the edges of the great square. He wished he knew what to say to them. That’s why he needed people like Brutha. That’s why all gods needed people like Brutha.
