The Assumption Behind Any Theology That I've

To Recognize Our Bias Toward Error Should Teach Us Modesty And Reflection, And To Forgive It Should Help Us Avoid The Inhumanity Of Thinking We Ourselves Are Not As Fallible As Those Who, In Any Instance, Seem Most At Fault. Science Can Give Us Knowledge, But It Cannot Give Us Wisdom. Nor Can Religion, Until It Puts Aside Nonsense And Distraction And Becomes Itself Again.

It Felt Very Good To Have Him Walking Beside Her. Good Like Rest And Quiet, Like Something You Could Live Without But You Needed Anyway. That You Had To Learn How To Miss, And Then You'd Never Stop Missing It.

This Morning The World By Moonlight Seemed To Be An Immemorial Acquaintance I Had Always Meant To Befriend. If There Was Ever A Chance, It Had Passed. Strange To Say, I Feel A Little That Way About Myself.

We Are Part Of A Mystery, A Splendid Mystery Within Which We Must Attempt To Orient Ourselves If We Are To Have A Sense Of Our Own Nature.

Every Spirit Passing Through The World Fingers The Tangible And Mars The Mutable And Finally Has Come To Look And Not To Buy. So Shoes Are Worn And Hassocks Are Sat Upon And Finally Everything Is Left Where It Was And The Spirit Passes On, Just As The Wind In The Orchard Picks Up The Leaves From The Ground As If There Were No Other Pleasure In The World But Brown Leaves, As If It Would Deck, Clothe, Flesh Itself In Flourishes Of Dusty Brown Apple Leaves And Then Drops Them All In A Heap At The Side Of The House And Goes On.