Why Art Thou But A Nest Of

Christ And The Life Of Christ Is At This Moment Inspiring The Literature Of The World As Never Before, And Raising It Up A Witness Against Waste And Want And War. It May Confess Him, As In Tolstoi's Work It Does, Or It May Deny Him, But It Cannot Exclude Him; And In The Degree That It Ignores His Spirit, Modern Literature Is Artistically Inferior. In Other Words, All Good Literature Is Now Christmas Literature.

The Conqueror Is Regarded With Awe; The Wise Man Commands Our Respect; But It Is Only The Benevolent Man That Wins Our Affection.

We Are Creatures Of The Moment; We Live From One Little Space To Another, And Only One Interest At A Time Fills These.

It Is The Curse Of Prosperity That It Takes Work Away From Us, And Shuts That Door To Hope And Health Of Spirit.

By Beauty Of Course I Mean Truth, For The One Involves The Other; It Is Only The False In Art Which Is Ugly, And It Is Only The Ugly That Is Universal.