I don't see any harm in brining an instrument into the church itself.
How fine is the mesh of death. You can almost see through it.
The pressed oil of words can blaze up into music, into image, into the heart and mind's knowledge. The lit and shadowed places within us can be warmed.
Justice lacking passion fails, betrays.
Wrong solitude vinegars the soul, right solitude oils it.
Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.
Some questions cannot be answered. They become familiar weights in the hand, round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.
Your allegiance is with your spouse; you cannot break that by showing allegiance to your ex-spouse.
I clearly saw the skeleton underneath all this show of personality what is left of a man and all his pride but bones?
Training a child is exactly like training a puppy; a little heedless inattention and it is out of hand immediately; the great thing is not to let it acquire bad habits that must afterward be broken.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows.