The virginal atheist thinks that belief should remain untouched, like snow or sand without footprints. To him, faith is an all consuming endeavor, like starvation, requiring every ounce of will. Religion should be luminous as mother of pearl.
The virginal atheist thinks that if he were religious, he would have to be a very devoted monk. Anything less would seem improper, a mere shadow of devotion. Where is the dedication, he asks.
Sometimes he thinks his atheism a blemish, an imperfection. The word atheism itself is rough in his mouth, like sand or grit between his teeth. He curls his lips back, like the two halves of an oyster, and spits. The word atheism comes back out smooth as a pearl, and he is not all that surprised.