God Very Seldom Succeeds. He Has Very

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.

What About Christianity? Are We Right In The Face Of So Long A Record Of Its Poverty In International Achievement, To Keep Invoking It As A Standard, Almost Synonymous With Civilization?

Decades Have A Delusive Edge To Them. They Are Not, Of Course, Really Periods At All, Except As Any Other Ten Years May Be. But We, Looking At Them, Are Caught By The Different Name Each Bears, And Give Them Different Attributes, And Tie Labels On Them, As If They Were Flowers In A Border.

The Impulse To Ask Questions Is Among The More Primitive Human Lusts.

Nearly All Novels Are Too Long.