fiction
Voltairine de Cleyre, “She Died for Me” (1895)
THE Doctor was a lean dark man, with sad eyes. They looked up, wide and singularly deep, as his visitor said: “I don’t understand you half-way freethinkers in the least. I am out and out. I have no patience with wishy-washiness. I just tell them straight that I haven’t any use for their musty old frauds, nor their whole outfit of priests, that live by them. But you-you know religion is all superstition, yet you go on talking to those people as if you accepted their belief in God and immortality and the vicarious atonement and the whole programme! “ […]