And suddenly, one day, he realizes that a Christian life ought to have a unity: not talent here and piety there, for God is in fact the giver of both and both ought to be brought to perfection in God.
But the moment he begins to enter into his work and to be an artist, the moment he catches sight of a task, the moment it becomes clear to him what it intends, what he wants, what he plans, he
Love alone is credible; nothing else can be believed. This is the achievement, the “work” of faith: to recognize this absolute prius, which nothing else can surpass; to believe that there is such a thing as love, absolute love, and
I finally made it up the mountain, and would like to start to tell the tale. But I’m winded, and not sure where to begin. I know I should begin at the beginning, but I will begin at the end.
As I mentioned, I have been spending time with George Steiner (his ideas and books, not the man himself). The following is from his work Real Presences: “Serious art, music, writing is not interesting in the sense in which journalism
Presented without comment: a recent post by Father Stephen on Beauty, Florensky, and Dostoyevsky.
Some weeks ago, I started George Steiner’s Real Presences, and after the first couple of chapters, I realize I needed to put it aside until I could give it the attention it deserves. (Luckily, my spring term ends tomorrow.) For
“There’s nothing better than when deep joy holds sway throughout the realm and banqueters up and down the palace sit in ranks, enthralled to hear
Tonight I started The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction by Alan Jacobs. I allow myself one distraction from my reading… In the book, Jacobs quotes the following from W. H. Auden’s cycle of poems, Horae Canonincae (no
My “To Read” stack is beginning to scare me. Strike that. I fear the divine wrath may strike me down for my pretense of building a tower “the top whereof may reach to heaven.” I began George Steiner’s excellent Real