It is not enough for me to ask question; I want to know how to answer the one question that seems to encompass everything I face: What am I here for?
Style without content is bad style.
When I went to bed as a child, I was told, ‘You don’t know where you’ll wake up.’ When I ran in the garden, I was told that running was bad for the heart. Everything had its sinister aspect – milk shrinks the stomach, lemon thins the blood.
The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own.
Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.
A harrassed and dubious childhood under the hand of a well-meaning but barbarous mother’s help from County Armagh led me to think of the North of Ireland as prison and the South as a land of escape.
Now is the age of anxiety.
To save your world you asked this man to die; would this man, could he see you now, ask why?
The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.
May it not be that, just as we have to have faith in Him, God has to have faith in us and, considering the history of the human race so far, may it not be that ‘faith’ is even more difficult for Him than it is for us?