But as he dressed the carcass—cutting it up to bring home—Borg’s gratitude gave way to revulsion. When he tried to extract the liver, which should have been firm and meaty, it deliquesced into a bloody sludge, sliding goopily through his fingers.

Although I dispraise not the defence of just immunities, yet love my peace better, if that were all.

After my father had a stroke, every time he tried to talk, it sounded like nonsense.

Delivered from the clampering clutch of self, we are built up into a re-collected consciousness of God.