The Secret Glory

Baldwin pushed himself beyond mere description into a higher literary region of sounds and rhythms, of shared faith and shared emotions: The church was very exciting. It took a long time for me to disengage myself from this excitement, and on the blindest, most visceral level, I never really have, and never will. There is no music like that music,

I have entered sadness as one might enter a room – this after weeks of my heart having for its habitation a place as unyielding and flat as an Essex field in winter! John Bell says: What ails you, wife? He produces gardenias, hair-combs, lenses, bracelets in amber and jet, celestial almanacs, a white hen – reminds me that the whole exchequer of his

Judge, then, how all-desolating and withering the blast, that for Pierre, in one night, stripped his holiest shrine of all over-laid bloom, and buried the mild statue of the saint beneath the prostrated ruins of the soul's temple itself.

deeper down in the more secret chambers of his unsuspecting soul, the smiling Lucy, now as dead and ashy pale, was being bound a ransom for Isabel's salvation.