A Poor Man With Nothing In His

Lust Is A Mysterious Wound In The Side Of Humanity; Or Rather, At The Very Source Of Its Life! To Confound This Lust In Man With That Desire Which Unites The Sexes Is Like Confusing A Tumor With The Very Organ Which It Devours, A Tumor Whose Very Deformity Horribly Reproduces The Shape.

Have You Never Been Moved By Poor Men's Fidelity, The Image Of You They Form In Their Simple Minds? Why Should You Always Talk Of Their Envy, Without Understanding That What They Ask Of You Is Not So Much Your Worldly Goods, As Something Very Hard To Define, Which They Themselves Can Put No Name To; Yet At Times It Consoles Their Loneliness; A Dream Of Splendor, Of Magnificence, A Tawdry Dream, A Poor Man's Dream -and Yet God Blesses It!

Like All Truly Pure Souls She [chantal] Quickly Resigned Herself To Past Faults, Thought Only Of How To Repair Whatever Harm They Had Done. "of All My Daughters, You Are Certainly The Least Bothered By Scruples Of Conscience," Abbé Chevance Used To Say.... Even Sin, Once The Will Is Detached And No Longer Nourishes It, Withers And Dies Sterile. It Is In The Secret Of Intentions, Like In A Decomposing Humus, In The Dark Forest Of Future Sins, Unpardoned Sins, Half Dead, Half Living, That New Poisons Are Distilled.

Faith Is Not A Thing Which One Loses, We Merely Cease To Shape Our Lives By It.

When Writing Of Oneself One Should Show No Mercy. Yet Why At The First Attempt To Discover One's Own Truth Does All Inner Strength Seem To Melt Away In Floods Of Self-pity And Tenderness And Rising Tears?