It's Very Easy In A Way, Horrible

From The Simplest Lyric To The Most Complex Novel And Densest Drama, Literature Is Asking Us To Pay Attention. Pay Attention To The Frog. Pay Attention To The West Wind. Pay Attention To The Boy On The Raft, The Lady In The Tower, The Old Man On The Train. In Sum, Pay Attention To The World And All That Dwells Therein And Thereby Learn At Last To Pay Attention To Yourself And All That Dwells Therein.

What Deadens Us Most To God's Presence Within Us, I Think, Is The Inner Dialogue That We Are Continually Engaged In With Ourselves, The Endless Chatter Of Human Thought.

The Past Is The Place We View The Present From As Much As The Other Way Around.

In The Entire History Of The Universe, Let Alone In Your Own History, There Has Never Been Another Day Just Like Today, And There Will Never Be Another Just Like It Again. Today Is The Point To Which All Your Yesterdays Have Been Leading Since The Hour Of Your Birth. It Is The Point From Which All Your Tomorrows Will Proceed Until The Hour Of Your Death. If You Were Aware Of How Precious Today Is, You Could Hardly Live Through It. Unless You Are Aware Of How Precious It Is, You Can Hardly Be Said To Be Living At All.

Not To Love Is, Psychically, Spiritually, To Die. To Live For Yourself Alone, Hoarding Your Life For Your Own Sake, Is In Almost Every Sense That Matters To Reduce Your Life To A Life Hardly Worth The Living, And Thus To Lose It.