As I said to Speedicut, it's hell in the diplomatic.

It is not the high summer alone that is God's. The winter also is His. And into His winter He came to visit us. And all man's winters are His - the winter of our poverty, the winter of our sorrow, the winter of our unhappiness - even 'the winter of our discontent.

In moments of doubt I cry, ‘Could God Himself create such lovely things as I dreamed?’ ‘Whence then came thy dream?’ answers Hope.

I am so tried by the things said about God. I understand God's patience with the wicked, but I do wonder how he can be so patient with the pious!

Now and then, when I look round on my books, they seem to waver as if a wind rippled their solid mass, and another world were about to break through.

What I would say is this, that the light is not blinding because God would hide, but because the truth is too glorious for our vision.

Half of the misery in the world comes from trying to look, instead of trying to be, what one is not.