I Had Never Known Her

How Often The Priest Had Heard The Same Confession--man Was So Limited: He Hadn't Even The Ingenuity To Invent A New Vice: The Animals Knew As Much. It Was For This World That Christ Had Died: The More Evil You Saw And Heard About You, The Greater The Glory Lay Around The Death; It Was Too Easy To Die For What Was Good Or Beautiful, For Home Or Children Or Civilization--it Needed A God To Die For The Half-hearted And The Corrupt.

You Cannot Love Without Intuition.

We Remember The Details Of Our Story, We Do Not Invent Them.

When You Visualized A Man Or A Woman Carefully, You Could Always Begin To Feel Pity . . . That Was A Quality God's Image Carried With It . . . When You Saw The Lines At The Corners Of The Eyes, The Shape Of The Mouth, How The Hair Grew, It Was Impossible To Hate. Hate Was Just A Failure Of Imagination.

A Writer Doesn't Write For His Readers, Does He? Yet He Has To Take Elementary Precautions All The Same, To Make Them Comfortable.