Monday, 11 December 2006


I find it difficult to say any of the Divine Office. Just a few months ago, the Hours were to me a current of life I could not go without. Now, my words are dusty, and faltering. There can be no talk of distractions, since there is so little attention. And the silences! The silences between the Psalms, they are as scourging as dark fire. To say any part of the Liturgy of the Hours requires of me an immense movement of the will, which must not only be mustered, but sustained throughout the time of prayer with a deliberate, painful concentration.

My pride would have me stop here, and have this scribbling proclaim implicitly that I am at present in the first Mystical Night. Yet that would be inaccurate, and deceptive. This dryness is caused by my sins, not by sanctity, for even in my recollection I am scattered among the dunes.

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