Our particular problem in America at this point in history is the widespread loss of the sense of individual significance, a loss which is sensed inwardly as impotence.

When God had made The Man, he made him out of stuff that sung all the time and glittered all over. Some angels got jealous and chopped him into millions of pieces, but still he glittered and hummed. So they beat him down to nothing but sparks but each little spark had a shine and a song. So they covered each one over with mud. And the lonesomeness in the sparks make them hunt for one another.

No man is to be credited for his mere authority's sake, unless he can show Scripture for the maintenance of his opinion.

Man only plays when in the full meaning of the word he is a man, and he is only completely a man when he plays.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

But there are not a few who would be indignant at having their belief in God questioned, who yet seem greatly to fear imagining Him better than He is.