(This is an excerpt from "God's dialogue with his soul". It is magnificent.)
"G: In the end, I'm bored. Because, in point of fact, for thousands of years I have been alone. And it is useless for writers to tell me solitude makes for grandeur; I am not a writer, myself. And I cannot even lie to myself, seeing that I'm at the centre of all thought. Me, I am not an idealist. And I don't have the expedience of believing myself damned. The truth is I am bored. Omniscience, omnipotence, it's always a bit the same thing.
S: Beware, boredom breeds doubt.
G: Say, that's new. You amuse me. That would be quite a farce wouldn't it? God doubting God. In fact, if I were not sure of being God, the fabulous number of names by which men have called me could one day be lost. Time and Space have arranged to identify me in good ways and attribute me with some horrors I doubtless never committed : Zeus...Batara or hunter centre, Jupiter, Zeus...or...Huitzilopochtli or...Ahura Mazda, Indra, and even - What a farce! - Buddha, Ra, Anu or Marduk, Allah, Jehovah, and so many others. Then, as if things weren't complicated enough already, they advised me to split myself into three. And that makes me think. In all that, which is the real name? As long as it's not Huitzilopochtli. If I could choose, I'd prefer something with a good ring to it.
S: (aside) What a talker!
G: Can't you say something, you? Yes, I know, you're telling yourself I'm getting old. And, that too, makes me uneasy. Suppose this eternity were a lie. Since I can do anything, I can very well have lied. And if I think about it, there are lot of things about me that might make me doubt. So I know perfectly well that to vanquish me, it is enough for a man to be equipped with a good deal of pity. Listen, soul. I am afraid. I feel doubt insinuating its way into me.
S: .... (and with good reason, God no longer believed in his soul)
G: The evil, the doubt that tortures me. Ah! If there were someone above me that I could adore, in whom I could believe. What gets me is not being able to give myself. There is nothing before me but love. How can I give myself to something that is so inferior to me. Someone above me! For pete's sake! So I can give myself! Alas, I am God. I know very well that there is nothing above me. And I cannot even raise my eyes. Ah! What terrible odors mixed with the smell of grilled flesh. Happy ye who can believe. Happy ye who can give yourselves, can pray, sob, suffer usefully. My suffering can only be useless. Unless I am something else. Perhaps I am not God, am a man like others. Ah! I feel my pride, which hurts at the thought. What to do? What to believe? There is nothing. Ah! I am going to tell men that. I want to see them suffer too. There is nothing. You should no longer believe. You should no longer hope. I hurl at you the uncertainty of nothingness. Receive it, make a robe of it, and let the folds fall artfully. And march forward, happy to be the first ones.....
.....Overwhelmed, God murmured: My God, I have only one hope. The natives of Tierra del Fuego, at the far end of Patagonia, adore me as a great black man who prohibits evildoing and the killing of little ducklings. If they are right, I am delivered from my misery. The little ducklings will bring me peace."
