What's the use of being God, if you can't do what you like? He
treats earth's creatures as a wanton boy treats his toys; they belong
to me; why shouldn't I break them if I choose? No one ought to
complain of misfortunes: you can not expect God is going to reward
the virtuous and punish the guilty. He has no standards whatever.
Just as I, Caliban, sit here and watch a procession of crabs: I
might lazily make up my mind, in a kind of sporting interest, to
count them as they pass; to let twenty go in safety, and smash the
twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just choosing so. When I feel
like it, I help some creatures; if in another mood, I torment others;
that's the way God treats us, that's the way I would act if I were
God.
As Caliban's theology has much of the human in it, so his practical
reasoning is decidedly human in its superstition. Granted that we
are in the hands of a childish and capricious God, who amuses himself
with torturing us, who laughs at our faces distorted with pain, what
is the thing we ought to do? How shall we best manage? Caliban's
advice is dear: don't let Him notice you: don't get prominent: above
all, never boast of your good fortune, for that will surely draw
God's attention, and He will put you where you belong.
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