Sin (n.) was easy to stay conscious of when brutality was spread daily before one's eyes; today religion and original sin have both vanished into the unconscious, which is why nobody believes in either.
Sin (n.) is, in theological language, the specifically human ability to deviate from the law of the species — and only because it kept other ways open has spiritual development been possible at all.
Sin (n.) is, in Gnostic terms, unconsciousness — and not only man's, but that of the God without consciousness.
Sin (n.) is often sent by God to those for whom he has prepared a high destiny: every apostle fell into mortal sin.
Sin (n.) cannot be avoided by anyone but the naïve: after a thorough confession it is a thousand to one he will sin again the very next minute.
Sin (n.) weighs what our judgment says it weighs — like the Texas confessor who, told “I've committed murder,” asks “How many?”
Sin (n.) left unconscious is punished by nature as severely as a conscious offence — highly moral people, unaware of their other side, develop particularly hellish moods.
Sin (n.) one has not committed cannot be redeemed, said the Gnostics — so the soul must pass through all of life's demands to ransom itself.
Sin (n.) is what the minister preached on — “And what did he say about sin?” “He was against it.”
Sin (n.) is forgiven in quantity to those who have loved much; those who love little have their few sins held against them.
Sin (n.) once invented gave rise to concealment — in analytical parlance, repression.
Sin (n.) committed on purpose is not sin at all, believes the intellectual — because it can be intellectualized out of existence; he even thinks he can unthink a wrong.
A Sin (n.) that is small is what we loudly deplore when we cannot admit a great one, shifting the pangs of conscience onto something minor.