A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers,

Those Who Marry God Can Become Domesticated Too - It's Just As Hum-drum A Marriage As All The Others. The Word Love Means A Formal Touch Of The Lips As In The Ceremony Of The Mass, And Ave Maria Like Dearest Is A Phrase To Open A Letter. This Marriage Like The World's Marriages Was Held Together By Habits And Tastes Shared In Common Between God And Themselves - It Was God's Taste To Be Worshipped And Their Taste To Worship, But Only At Stated Hours Like A Suburban Embrace On A Saturday Night.

It's Strange How The Human Mind Swings Back And Forth, From One Extreme To Another. Does Truth Lie At Some Point Of The Pendulum's Swing, At A Point Where It Never Rests, Not In The Dull Perpendicular Mean Where It Dangles In The End Like A Windless Flag, But At An Angle, Nearer One Extreme Than Another? If Only A Miracle Could Stop The Pendulum At An Angle Of Sixty Degrees, One Would Believe The Truth Was There.

And There, In That Phrase, The Bitterness Leaks Again Out Of My Pen. What A Dull Lifeless Quality This Bitterness Is. If I Could I Would Write With Love, But If I Could Write With Love I Would Be Another Man; I Would Never Have Lost Love.

Communism, My Friend, Is More Than Marxism, Just As Catholicism Is More Than The Roman Curia. There Is A Mystique As Well As A Politick. Catholics And Communists Have Committed Great Crimes, But At Least They Have Not Stood Aside, Like An Established Society, And Been Indifferent. I Would Rather Have Blood On My Hands Than Water Like Pilate.

The Economy Of A Novelist Is A Little Like That Of A Careful Housewife Who Is Unwilling To Throw Away Anything That Might Perhaps Serve Its Turn.