This God Who, As The

If You Would Tell Me The Heart Of A Man, Tell Me Not What He Reads, But What He Rereads.

It Seems That, After Nineteen Centuries Of Extraordinary Glorification, The Small Host For Which So Many Cathedrals Have Sprung Up, The Small Host That Has Rested In Millions Of Breasts And That Has Found A Tabernacle And Worshippers Even In The Desert - It Seems That The Triumphant Host Of Lourdes And The Eucharistic Congresses Of Chicago And Carthage Remains As Unknown, As Secret As When It Appeared For The First Time In A Room In Jerusalem. Light Is In The World As In The Days Of St. John The Baptist, And The World Does Not Know It

A Good Critic Is The Sorcerer Who Makes Some Hidden Spring Gush Forth Unexpectedly Under Our Feet.

The Grandeur Of Man Lies In Song, Not In Thought.

Men Resemble Great Deserted Palaces: The Owner Occupies Only A Few Rooms And Has Closed-off Wings Where He Never Ventures.