Movies are my religion and God is my patron. I'm lucky enough to

"Movies are my religion and God is my patron. I'm lucky enough to be in the position where I don't make movies to pay for my pool. When I make a movie, I want it to be everything to me; like I would die for it." — so declared Quentin Tarantino, the fiery craftsman of cinema, whose heart beats in rhythm with the reel and the screen. In these words burns the creed of a man who does not merely create for gain, but who worships his art as a sacred calling. For him, cinema is not industry—it is faith. And in that faith, he has consecrated his spirit entirely. Tarantino’s declaration is not of arrogance but of devotion: a vow that he would rather die for his work than let it live without meaning.

In the ages of old, the masters of craft and wisdom often spoke of art as a form of worship. To the sculptor of Athens, each marble was a prayer; to the monk who inked sacred manuscripts, each word was a step toward God. So too does Tarantino speak in their tongue—he sees film as temple, and himself as its priest. His statement reveals a timeless truth: that true creation demands sacrifice. One cannot serve both comfort and calling. Those who make art for pools or gold may build fortunes, but not legacies. The divine spark does not visit the one who counts coins; it visits the one who bleeds for the vision in his soul.

Think of Vincent van Gogh, whose devotion to his art drove him to hunger, loneliness, and despair. He painted not for galleries, not for fame, but for truth—the fierce and trembling beauty of life. When he painted the stars swirling over Saint-Rémy, he was not recording what he saw, but what he felt—the pulse of the universe in his trembling hands. He, too, could have said: “Art is my religion.” He died poor, yet his work became eternal. Tarantino’s words echo this same spirit: that art, when born from devotion, outlives its maker.

And what does it mean to say, “I would die for it”? It is not a call for martyrdom, but for total surrender. To create something worthy of the ages, one must give one’s heart entire. It means staying awake when the world sleeps, laboring when comfort calls, and believing when none believe. It means that when you make something—be it a film, a poem, or a dream—you must make it as if your very soul depends on it. Only then does the work breathe with life. Only then does the audience feel not a performance, but a pulse.

Yet Tarantino’s quote carries another flame—a warning and a blessing both. He says, “I don’t make movies to pay for my pool.” Here lies the line that separates the creator from the laborer. The laborer works for coin; the creator works for calling. When work becomes worship, every act—every frame, every brushstroke, every note—becomes sacred. The heart that creates from love rather than gain will find freedom no wealth can buy. Tarantino’s blessing, his luck as he calls it, is that he lives for meaning, not for luxury.

So, let every reader, every seeker, learn from this creed. Whatever your craft, make it your religion. Pour yourself into it until it becomes the air you breathe. Serve it as the knight serves his oath, as the monk serves his prayer. Do not measure your worth by the gold it brings, but by the truth it reveals. For when you work with your soul aflame, even failure becomes holy. The world may not always understand your devotion, but time will.

Thus, the lesson is this: Find what you would die for—and live for it instead. Let your work be your temple and your devotion your offering. Whether you shape words, build dreams, or raise children, let it be everything to you. Give yourself fully, and life will answer in kind. For as Tarantino teaches, the sacred secret of creation is not in fortune, but in faith—that fierce and burning faith that makes the soul declare: This is my religion, and I will serve it with all my heart.