Leopold once observed: “Many people think that we have some secret apparatus by which we can squeeze glass suddenly into these forms. … The only way to become a glass modeler of skill, I have often said to people, is to get a good great-grandfather who loved glass.”
The Church supplies, even when leadership at the highest levels, in and out of the Church, sometimes seems lacking. The Church supplies when our own hearts are hardened and our prayer is dry as dust. The Church supplies even when we long to give our all, and our all seemingly avails so little that we become absurd even to ourselves.
I actually like airports. Right away, I make a beeline for the farthest end of the terminal where you can often find an empty gate area or some weird tucked-away corner or a window through which you can hungrily gaze at the world outside.
“What do I mean by increasing life? How can we live more, given that we can’t live longer? Through attention and intensity. Being fully present to the world, and feeling without reservation: the two things that making art requires and that experiencing it involves.”
She came to see that enduring the anti-Catholic jibes of her husband, whom she loved deeply, and his friends, could be a hidden form of mortification. “Silence is sometimes an act of energy, and smiling, too.”
“Even if this is all we ever finish, we have a clinic. We’re doing outpatient palliative and hospice care. That’s not for nothing. We’ll do the work that God puts before us. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen.”
’m on an R.S. Thomas kick. 1913-2000. Welsh poet, Anglican priest, major curmudgeon, deeply private. Not seemingly cut out to be a pastor–few people skills. Suffered, obviously. His work cuts me to the quick.
Gems also have a sinister side. They’re mostly worn by women. At this level, they’re insanely expensive: in 2015, a “perfect” 100-carat diamond sold at Sotheby’s for $22 million. Put the two together and mayhem, at some point, is bound to result.
“Thunderclap: A Memoir of Art and Life & Sudden Death,” by British art critic Laura Cumming, is ostensibly about the Dutch Golden Age, but as well ranges over her love for her late father, the mysterious life and death of the painter Carel Fabritius (“The Goldfinch”), the power of art, and our quest for meaning.