It must be said that charity can, in no way, exist along with mortal sin.

I cannot understand how anyone conscious of mortal sin can laugh or be merry.

Drive-in, you guzzle gin, commit a little mortal sin.

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “You are an unfeeling”—poke —“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke —“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least. Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.

Arrows you may dodge and fever you may antibody for, but mortal grief is a misfortune you cannot escape.

The leaf that spreads in the light is the only holiness there is. I haven’t found holiness in the faiths of mortals, or in their music, not in their dreams: it’s out in the open field, with the green rows looking at the sky. I don’t know what it is, this holiness: but it’s there, and it looks at the sky.
Probably though this is some conditioning the Company installed to ensure I’d be a good botanist. Well, I grew up into a good one. Damned good.

I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be; and my veil no mortal has hitherto raised.

In the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood, astray, Gone from the path direct.

Oh blind, oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity which spurs as so in the short mortal life and steeps as through all eternity.

When I was very young I was sort of floored by the fact that my mother and my father and everyone I knew was going to die one day, and myself too. I had a sort of a philosophical crisis. I couldn’t believe that we were mortal.