There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.

There are two occasions when the sacred beauty of Creation becomes dazzlingly apparent, and they occur together. One is when we feel our mortal insufficiency to the world, and the other is when we feel the world's mortal insufficiency to us.

Because, once alone, it is impossible to believe that one could ever have been otherwise. Loneliness is an absolute discovery.

He will wipe the tears from all faces.' It takes nothing from the loveliness of the verse to say that is exactly what will be required

I listen to Bach a great deal. In general I like to listen to hymns and liturgical music.

There are worries that seem to me sustained by the love of worry. For example, that people are reading from screens, or listening to recorded books. Why scold the impulse to enjoy language and narrative in whatever form it takes?

pity and charity may be at root an attempt to propitiate the dark powers that have not touched us yet.