Real life oppressed me with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe.
And in fact I've noticed that faith always seems to be less in the daytime.
I've been waiting all my life for some one like you, I knew that some one like you would come and forgive me. I believed that, nasty as I am, some one would really love me, not only with a shameful love!
Is it because in my soul I'm just as much a murderer? he asked himself. Something remote, but burning, stung his soul.
It is not miracles that bring a realist to faith. A true realist, if he is not a believer, will always find in himself the strength and ability not to believe in miracles as well, and if a miracle stands before him as an irrefutable fact, he will sooner doubt his own senses than admit the fact.
I just keep wondering now how people can live and think nothing about these things.