There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.

The human heart is not unchanging (nay, changes almost out of recognition in the twinkling of an eye).

If war is ever lawful, then peace is sometimes sinful.

Our souls demand Purgatory, don't they? Would it not break the heart if God said to us, It is true, my son, that your breath smells and your rags drip with mud and slime, but we are charitable here and no one will upbraid you with these things, nor draw away from you. Enter into joy? Should we not reply, With submission, sir, and if there is no objection, I'd rather be cleansed first. It may hurt, you know-even so, sir.

We were talking of DRAGONS, Tolkien and I In a Berkshire bar. The big workman Who had sat silent and sucked his pipe All the evening, from his empty mug With gleaming eye glanced towards us: "I seen 'em myself!" he said fiercely.

Any amount of theology can now be smuggled into people's minds under the cover of fiction without their knowing it.

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, hoever, turns out to be not a state but a process.