He's not safe, but he's good (referring to Aslan, the Lion, in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)

I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought feeling after feeling action after action had H. for their object. Now their target is gone. I keep on through habit fitting an harrow to the string then I remember and have to lay the bow down. So many roads lead through to H. I set out on one of them. But now there's an impassable frontier-post across it. So many roads once now so many culs de sac.

The process of growing up is to be valued for what we gain, not for what we lose.

Most of us need the crutch at times; but of course it is idiotic to use the crutch when our own legs (our own loves, tastes, habits etc.) can do the journey on their own.

One is sometimes glad not to be a great theologian; one might easily mistake it for being a good Christian.

I am often, I believe, praying for others when I should be doing things for them. It's so much easier to pray for a bore than to go and see him.

That fierce imprisonment in the self is but the obverse of the self-giving which is absolute reality.