Grace Has A Grand Laughter In It.

The Mind Has A Complex Life That Can Seem Quite Autonomous - Dreams, Obsessions, Unwilled Memory Are All Instances Of This.

Fiction May Be, Whatever Else, An Exercise In The Capacity For Imaginative Love, Or Sympathy, Or Identification.

I Do Assume That A Character Or A Place Is Inexhaustible And Will Always Reward Further Attention.

I Experience Religious Dread Whenever I Find Myself Thinking That I Know The Limits Of God’s Grace, Since I Am Utterly Certain It Exceeds Any Imagination A Human Being Might Have Of It. God Does, After All, So Love The World.

To Crave And To Have Are As Like As A Thing And Its Shadow. For When Does A Berry Break Upon The Tongue As Sweetly As When One Longs To Taste It, And When Is The Taste Refracted Into So Many Hues And Savors Of Ripeness And Earth, And When Do Our Senses Know Any Thing So Utterly As When We Lack It? And Here Again Is A Foreshadowing - The World Will Be Made Whole. For To Wish For A Hand On One's Hair Is All But To Feel It. So Whatever We May Lose, Very Craving Gives It Back To Us Again.