When the author walks onto the stage, the play is over

She looked at a silver birch: it would have a soft, showery voice and would look like a slender girl, with hair blown all about her face and fond of dancing. She looked at the oak: he would be a wizened, but hearty, old man with a frizzled beard and warts on his fact and hands, with hair growing out of the warts. She looked at the beech under which she was standing. Ah! --she would be the best of all. She would be a gracious goddess, smooth and stately, the Lady of the Wood.

The world does not need more Christian literature. What it needs is more Christians writing good literature.

Could one start a Stagnation Party-which at General Elections would boast that during its term of office no event of the least importance had taken place?

We make men without chests and expect from them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.

We are...a Divine work of art, something that God is making...something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character.

A man who first tried to guess 'what the public wants,' and then preached that as Christianity because the public wants it, would be a pretty mixture of fool and knave