What does the truth matter? Haven’t we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies, lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep: lies as soft and warm as a breast!
Our rages, daughters of despair, creep and squirm like worms. Prayer is the only form of revolt which remains upright.
But I shall give less thought to the future, I shall work in the present. I feel such work is within my power. For I only succeed in small things, and when I am tried by anxiety, I am bound to say it is the small joys that release me.
What does it matter, all is grace.
Purity is not imposed upon us as though it were a kind of punishment, it is one of those mysterious but obvious conditions of that supernatural knowledge of ourselves in the Divine, which we speak of as faith. Impurity does not destroy this knowledge, it slays our need for it.
The most dangerous of our calculations are those we call illusions.
Fear, true fear, is a savage frenzy. Of all the insanities of which we are capable, it is surely the cruelest. There is naught to equal its drive, and naught can survive its thrust.
Optimism approves of everything, submits to everything, believes everything; it is the virtue above all of the taxpayer.
When writing of oneself one should show no mercy. Yet why at the first attempt to discover one’s own truth does all inner strength seem to melt away in floods of self-pity and tenderness and rising tears?
God knows that we should not despise anything. We must do our best.
Only the present counts.
The horrors that we have seen, the still greater horrors we shall presently see, are not signs that rebels, insubordinate, untamable men are increasing in number throughout the world, but rather that there is a constant increase in the number of obedient, docile men. – George Bernanos.
I have no ambition to change my nature, I merely intend to conquer my dislikes.
The work God carries out in us,′ he said after a short pause, ‘is not often what we expect. A great deal of the time the Holy Spirit seems to be working backward in us and wasting time. If a lump of iron could form an idea of the file that’s slowly rough-shaping it, how furious it would be! Yet that’s how God shapes us. Certain saints’ lives seem horribly monotonous and desolate.
We pay a heavy, very heavy price for the superhuman dignity of our calling. The ridiculous is always so near to the sublime. And the world, usually so indulgent to foibles, hates ours instinctively.
Those who still profess the rule of hope, teach optimism only by force of habit, without believing in what they say.
Nothing but a little savage...
I believe, in fact I am certain, that many men never give out the whole of themselves, their deepest truth. They live on the surface, and yet, so rich is the soil of humanity that even this thin outer layer is able to yield a kind of meager harvest which gives the illusion of real living.
Nowadays the seminaries turn out little choirboys, little ragamuffins who think they’re working harder than anybody because they never get anything done.
I realize now that friendship can break out between two people, with that sudden violence which is only attributed to the revelation of love.
Well, as I was saying, the world is eaten up by boredom. To perceive this needs a little preliminary thought: you can’t see it all at once. It is like dust. You go about and never notice, you breathe it in, you eat and drink it. It is sifted so fine, it doesn’t even grit on your teeth. But stand still for an instant and there it is, coating your face and hands. To shake off this drizzle of ashes you must be forever on the go. And so, people are always “on the go.