Be their hero, Clark. Be their monument, be their angel, be anything they need you to be. Or be none of it. You don’t owe this world a thing. You never did.
I bet your parents taught you that you mean something, that you’re here for a reason. My parents taught me a different lesson, dying in the gutter for no reason at all. They taught me the world only makes sense if you force it to.
Men fall from the sky and gods hurl thunderbolts. Innocents die. That’s how it starts. The fever, the rage, the feeling of powerlessness that turns good men… cruel.
Twenty years in Gotham, Alfred. We’ve seen what promises are worth. How many good guys are left. How many stay that way.
The bells are already been rung, and they’ve heard it. Out in the dark, among the stars. Ding dong, the God is dead.
You will fly to him, and you will battle him to the death. Black and blue. Fight night! The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world. God versus man. Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus Bat of Gotham!
You don’t have to use the silver bullet, but if you forge one… Well, then… We don’t have to depend upon the kindness of monsters.
What we call God depends upon our tribe, Clark Jo. Because God is tribal. God takes sides. No man in the sky intervened when I was a boy to deliver me from daddy’s fist and abominations. I’ve figured it out way back, if God is all powerful, He cannot be all good. And if He is all good, then He cannot be all powerful. And neither can you be.