Artistic temperament sometimes seems a battleground, a dark angel of destruction and a bright angel of creativity wrestling.
We do not know and cannot tell when the spirit is with us. Great talent or small, it makes no difference. We are caught within our own skins, our own sensibilities; we never know if our technique has been adequate to the vision.
It takes too much energy to be against something unless it's really important.
Hate hurts the hater more'n the hated.
I love, therefore I am vulnerable.
Be aware that rigidity imprisons.
It is all, as usual, paradox. I have to use what intellect I have in order to write books, but I write the kind of books I do in order that I may try to set down glimpses of things that are on the other side of the intellect. We do not go around and discard the intellect, but we must go through and beyond it.
Love is the one surprise.
To grow up is to accept vulnerability. To be alive is to be vulnerable.
Anything that's natural can't be sinful-it may be inconvenient, but it's not sinful.
you've got to learn to walk through a pigpen and not get dirty.
There's nothing more physically exhausting than a sense of failure.
We human beings grow through our failures, not our virtues.
To refuse to respond is in itself a response.
It was not an end, it was a beginging
And I can't say it now. I can't say what I want to say. I hold you-- I-- I clutch you, because I love you so desperately, and time is so short, we have such a little time in which to live and be young, even at best, and I put my arms around you and hold you because I want to love you while I can and I want to know I'm loving you, only it doesn't mean anything because you aren't afraid. You aren't frightened so that you want to clutch it all while you can.
Death is contagious; it is contracted the moment we are conceived.
An artist is someone who cannot rest, who can never rest as long as there is one suffering creature in the world.
Unlearning is the choice, conscious or unconscious, of any real artist. And it is the true sign of maturity.
Because I am a storyteller I live by words. Perhaps music is a purer art form. It may be that when we communicate with life on another planet, it will be through music, not through language or words.
If our lives are truly "hid with Christ in God," the astounding thing is that this hiddenness is revealed in all that we do and say and write. What we are is going to be visible in our art, no matter how secular (on the surface) the subject may be.
It is the ability to choose which makes us human.
We are suspicious of grace. We are afraid of the very lavishness of the gift.
You don't want him for a reason. You want him because he's your father.
The images were gone, but Calvin was there, was with her, was part of her. She had moved beyond knowing him in sensory images to that place which is beyond images. Now she was kything Calvin, not red hair, or freckles, or eager blue eyes, or the glowing smile; nor was she hearing the deep voice with the occasional treble cracking; not any of this, but - Calvin. She was with Calvin, kything with every atom of her being, returning to him all the fortitude and endurance and hope which he had given her.
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