There could be no God; and if no God, good and evil were little more than names.

We were the sport of chance, and chance meant the destruction of anything like moral responsibility.

I could not help being constituted as I was, neither could Voltaire help his nature.

One set of circumstances had surrounded his life, another mine, and our image and shape were according to the force of these circumstances.

As for a God who loved us, it was absurd.
And yet who gave us love--made us capable of loving?
Was love the result of chance, which was in reality nothing?
And again, whence the idea of God, whence the longing for Him?
Besides, did not the longing for Him give evidence of His being?
But I will not weary the reader with my mental wanderings; they are doubtless wearisome enough, and yet they were terribly real to me Although I have used but a few pages of paper in hinting at them, they caused me to lie awake through many a weary night.
Still no help came.
I went to a church one Sunday night.