A Writer Is Essentially A Man Who

We Are, All Of Us, Molded And Remolded By Those Who Have Loved Us, And Though That Love May Pass, We Remain None The Less Their Work--a Work That Very Likely They Do Not Recognize, And Which Is Never Exactly What They Intended.

The Man Who Partakes In The Breaking Of The Bread Dares To Build His House On The Very Core Of Love. He Becomes, As It Were, Godlike, But Regardless Of The Strength He Derives From It, His Free Will Remains. We Are Always Free To Disown This Immense Grace, To Abuse It. The Greatest Love May Be Betrayed. Fed On The Living Bread, We Nevertheless Conceal A Part Of Ourselves Which Longs For Swine's Food.

Let Us Be Wary Of Ready-made Ideas About Cowardice And Courage: The Same Burden Weighs Infinitely More Heavily On Some Shoulders Than On Others.

If You Would Tell Me The Heart Of A Man, Tell Me Not What He Reads, But What He Rereads.

It Seems That, After Nineteen Centuries Of Extraordinary Glorification, The Small Host For Which So Many Cathedrals Have Sprung Up, The Small Host That Has Rested In Millions Of Breasts And That Has Found A Tabernacle And Worshippers Even In The Desert - It Seems That The Triumphant Host Of Lourdes And The Eucharistic Congresses Of Chicago And Carthage Remains As Unknown, As Secret As When It Appeared For The First Time In A Room In Jerusalem. Light Is In The World As In The Days Of St. John The Baptist, And The World Does Not Know It