"- You're not a believer, are you?" Haines asked. "I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God."
"- There's only sense of the word, it seems to me," Stephen said. (1.289-290)
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal…
"- The ways of the Creator are not our ways," Mr. Deasy said. "All history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God."
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
"- That is God…"
"- What?" Mr Deasy asked.
"- A shout in the street," Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders." (2.159-165)
Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue from the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: naked women! What about that, eh? (3.36)