I believe nothing.
I have shut myself away from the rocks and wisdoms of ages, and from the so-called great teachers of all time, and perhaps because of that isolation I am given to bizarre hospitalities.
I shut the front door upon Christ and Einstein, and at the back door hold out a welcoming hand to little frogs and periwinkles.
I believe nothing of my own that I have ever written.
I cannot accept that the products of minds are subject-matter for beliefs.
But I accept, with reservations that give me freedom to ridicule the statement at any other time, that showers of an edible substance that has not been traced to an origin upon this earth, have fallen from the sky, in Asia Minor.