“ There's so much to be grateful for, words are poor things. ”
Memory can make a thing seem to have been much more than it was.
~ Marilynne Robinson
When something ought to be true then it proves to be a very powerful truth.
I felt, as I have often felt, that my failing the truth could have no bearing at all on the Truth itself, which could never conceivably be in any sense dependent on me or on anyone.
There is no justice in love, no proportion in it, and there need not be, because in any specific instance it is only a glimpse or parable of an embracing, incomprehensible reality. It makes no sense at all because it is the eternal breaking in on the temporal. So how could it subordinate itself to cause or consequence?
