That Is The Mystery Of Grace: It

A Good Critic Is The Sorcerer Who Makes Some Hidden Spring Gush Forth Unexpectedly Under Our Feet.

The Grandeur Of Man Lies In Song, Not In Thought.

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.

No Love, No Friendship, Can Cross The Path Of Our Destiny Without Leaving Some Mark On It Forever.

A Writer Is Essentially A Man Who Does Not Resign Himself To Loneliness.