Great art is indefinable but that's all right; it exists anyway.

A house built on greed cannot long endure.

Is the Archbishop's blessing any more meaningful than the Politician's handshake? The come, they go, with bigger things than us on their minds.

In writing, fidelity to fact leads eventually to the poetry of truth.

Whenever I read _Time_ or _Newsweek_ or such magazines, I wash my hands afterward. But how to wash off the small but odious stain such reading leaves on the mind?

We live in a time of twin credulities: the hunger for the miraculous combined with a servile awe of science. The mating of the two gives us superstition plus scientism -- a Mongoloid metaphysic.

Do I believe in ghosts? I believe in the ghosts that haunt the human mind.