When he dies, the angels, they find nothing to eat on his bones.
Mitrinovic thought that Bertrand Russell had starved himself of any sense for the marvelous. I like the grisly image of angels as barbeque connoisseurs crowded round a grand celestial picnic table. (Little cupid’s got a smudge of marinade on his tunic – Raphael’s dipped a wing in the potato salad again…) Really, it never helped much when you told your son to eat his greens “because children in Africa are starving.” Give him something fresh to puzzle over. “Keep your sense of wonder, kid, and you’ll feed a hungry angel.”