she was completely wholeand yet never fully complete

...unforgivingly, and forcefully magnificent...

Fantasy like thought that no man could rainJust let her reignRun wild with her unafraidOf any rain stormsThey only wash the mud away and make wayFor double rainbows and sunny days

...I fell asleep and had a dream that a king was liquidated by a group of kind faces....

...I fell asleep and had a dream that a king was liquidated by a group of kind faces...

The depths of her thoughts will have you never wanting to surface for air...

I didn't come looking for you the day you uninvitedly appeared on my doorstepHow did we go from nonchalant conversation me waiting for you to turn me off with corny jokes and mind dumbing conversationto loveTo love and mind blowing chemistry that I've yet to make sense of What are you here to teach me?

She was rare, few and far betweenShe suspected he would be as wellAnd the thought of two rare, few and far between individualsDoing all that was necessary for that rare, few and far between Meeting to occurDrove her to write

The writer who position is Christian, and probably also the writer whose position is not, will begin to wonder at this point if there could not be some ugly correlation between our unparalleled prosperity and the stridency of these demands for a literature that shows us the joy of life. He may at least be permitted to ask if these screams for joy would be quite so piercing if joy were really more abundant in our prosperous society.

The Christian writer will feel that in the greatest depth of vision, moral judgment will be implicit, and that when we are invited to represent the country according to survey, what we are asked to do is to separate mystery from manners and judgment from vision, in order to produce something a little more palatable to the modern temper. We are asked to form our consciences in the light of statistics, which is to establish the relative as absolute. For many this may be a convenience, since we don't live in an age of settled belief; but it cannot be a convenience, it cannot even be possible, for the writer who is a Catholic. He will feel that any long-continued service to it will produce a soggy, formless, and sentimental literature, one that will provide a sense of spiritual purpose for those who connect the spirit with romanticism and a sense of joy for those who confuse that virtue with satisfaction. The storyteller is concerned with what is; but if what is is what can be determined by survey, then the disciples of Dr. Kinsey and Dr. Gallup are sufficient for the day thereof.

The novelist is required to create the illusion of a whole world with believable people in it, and the chief difference between the novelist who is an orthodox Christian and the novelist who is merely a naturalist is that the Christian novelist lives in a larger universe. He believes that the natural world contains the supernatural. And this doesn't mean that his obligation to portray the natural is less; it means it is greater.