Our Language Needs Endless Synonyms

I Didn’t Look To The Shore Much After This First Long And Memorable Glimpse. I Looked Up At Heaven And Her Court Of Mythical Creatures Fixed Forever In The All Powerful And Inscrutable Stars. Ink Black Was The Night Beyond Them, And They So Like Jewels That Old Poetry Came Back To Me, The Sound Even Of Hymns Sung Only By Men.

You Can Look At The New York Times Bestseller List And You Can Be Pretty Sure That The Writers On That List Don't Know Each Other Very Well.

I Assume I Don't Need An Introduction.

People Who Cease To Believe In God Or Goodness Altogether Still Believe In The Devil. I Don't Know Why. No, I Do Indeed Know Why. Evil Is Always Possible. And Goodness Is Eternally Difficult.

In Spite Of All The Refinements Of Civilization That Conspired To Make Art--the Dizzying Perfection Of The String Quartet Or The Sprawling Grandeur Of Fragonard's Canvases--beauty Was Savage. It Was As Dangerous And Lawless As The Earth Had Been Eons Before Man Had One Single Coherent Thought In His Head Or Wrote Codes Of Conduct On Tablets Of Clay. Beauty Was A Savage Garden.