“Of the love or hatred God has for the English, I know nothing, but I do know that they will all be thrown out of France, except those who die there.”

Making Love out of Nothing at All (1983)
Context: I know just how to fake it
And I know just how to scheme
I know just when to face the truth
And then I know just when to dream.
And I know just where to touch you
And I know just what to prove
I know when to pull you closer
And I know when to let you loose.
And I know the night is fading
And I know the time's gonna fly
And I'm never gonna tell you everything I gotta tell you
But I know I've got to give it a try.
And I know the roads to riches
And I know the ways to fame
I know all the rules and then I know how to break'em
And then I always know the name of the game
But I don't know how to leave you
And I'll never let you fall
And I don't know how you do it
Making love out of nothing at all.

Source: Spoken on his return to India from England, as recorded in From Colombo to Almora (1904), p. 221

Quoted in "Josephine Bakhita (1869-1947)", The Holy See https://www.vatican.va/news_services/liturgy/saints/ns_lit_doc_20001001_giuseppina-bakhita_en.html.

Source: The Great God Pan (1894), Ch. VII : The Encounter in Soho
Context: I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it is horrible enough; but after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day and in dim London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive gardens. We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish, silly tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath such a burden?

All the Pretty Horses (1992)

[Norris, K., The Cloister Walk, Penguin Publishing Group, 1997, 978-1-101-21566-1, http://books.google.com/books?id=pZkLNwpYcJ0C&pg=PT115]

Source: 1920s, "Picasso Speaks" (1923), p. 319.

Source: The Man in the Iron Mask

Scriptures
Source: "I am That." P.51.