The Big God just had too many guns for me, He was too right and too powerful. I didn’t want to be forgiven or accepted or found, I wanted something less than that, something not too much—a woman of average fairness in spirit and body, an automobile, a place to stay, some food and not too many toothaches or flat tires, no long sickness unto death; even a tv set with bad programs would be all right, and a dog would be nice, and very few friends and good plumbing, and enough to drink to fill the spaces until death, which (for a coward) I had very little fear of. Death meant little to me. It was the last joke in a series of bad jokes. Death was no problem to the dead. Death was another movie, it was all right.