A Writer Is Essentially A Man Who

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

The Temples Of Those Who Deny The Real Presence Are Like Corpses. The Lord Was Taken Away And We Do Not Know Where They Have Laid Him.

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.

God Does Not Answer Our Desperate Questionings; He Simply Gives Us Himself.

The Eucharist Engages Us Unreservedly; It Is A Pact Of Love, An Alliance Signed In The Deeper Recesses Of Our Being. All Our Potentialities Are Called Upon To Warrant The Protection And Fulfillment Of This Pact.