Sin ought to be something exquisite, my dear boy.
The thought is a deed. Of all deeds she fertilizes the world most.
A ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to lie rotting on the ground.
Art is a corner of creation seen through a temperament.
Has science ever retreated? No! It is Catholicism which has always retreated before her, and will always be forced to retreat.
Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of even finding its master?