At religious instruction classes, I encountered The Pilgrims Progress by John Bunyan, and the sincerity of the traveller in that book was overwhelming.

My mother enjoyed old age, and because of her I've begun to enjoy parts of it too. So far I've had it good and am crumbling nicely.

I learnt pity, sympathy, and what it was like to be at the other end of the stick. Such lessons can't be learnt in lecture halls.

Because of my Marxism, I was not into myths or miracles, whether it was the virgin birth, the physical resurrection or casting out demons from an epileptic.

I recovered my infant Judaism, but in a reformist version.

In speaking of Jesus, I must speak about Christianity because I do not think it possible or profitable to divide the two.

For a devotee or lover, the being, worshipped or loved, will always be the only one for her or him.