And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
Be that as it may, it’s all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing this book with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones.
Aristotle once wrote that he who exceeds in confidence when it comes to frightening things is reckless, and the reckless person is held to be both a boaster and a pretender to courage.
If Holy Thursday, moreover, is what transforms Good Friday from an execution to a sacrifice, then Easter Sunday is what transforms the sacrifice into a sacrament.
