There were sins that were too subtle to be explained, and there were others that were too terrible to be clearly mentioned. For example, there was sex, which was always smouldering just under the surface and which suddenly blew up into a tremendous row when I was about twelve.

The twin conceptions of sin and vindictive punishment seem to be at the root of much that is most vigorous, both in religion and politics.

At first sin was as fragile as a spiders thread, and finally as stout as a ship's hawser; sin arrived as a passerby, next lingered for a moment, then came as a visitor, and finally became master of the house.

Sins cannot be undone, only forgiven.

We cannot well do without our sins; they are the highway of our virtue.

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been a minute since my last confession.

There is no original sin. It's all been done before.

Sin has been made not only ugly but passe. People are no longer sinful, they are only immature or underprivileged or frightened or, more particularly, sick.

Everything that used to be a sin is now a disease.