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Quote by Robert Hugh Benson

“To say 'Hail Mary, Hail Mary,' is the best way of telling her how much we love her. And then this string of beads is like Our Lady's girdle, and her children love to finger it, and whisper to her. And then we say our paternosters, too; and all the while we are talking she is shewing us pictures of her dear Child, and we look at all the great things He did for us, one by one; and then we turn the page and begin again.”

Quote by Robert Hugh Benson

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Robert Hugh Benson
Robert Hugh Benson

Robert Hugh Benson (November 18, 1871 - October 19, 1914) was an English writer and theologian whose works spanned across various fields including religion, history, and science fiction. more

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“All love tends to become like that which it loves. God loved man; therefore He became man. For nine months her own body was the natural Eucharist, in which God shared communion with human life, thus preparing for that greater Eucharist when human life would commune with the Divine. Mary’s joy was to form Christ in her own body; her joy now is to form Christ in our souls. In this Mystery, we pray to become pregnant with the Christ spirit, giving Him new lips with which He may speak of His Father, new hands with which He may feed the poor, and a new heart with which He may love everyone, even enemies.”

“Embarrassed, Teo slid down in his seat and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m glaring at him with disdain, I’m not ogling!” he said, much quieter this time, but he knew he wasn’t convincing anyone after that display. Niya laughed. Xio at least had the decency to try to cover his chuckle with a cough. Teo groaned, but when he looked up at Aurelio again, he coud’ve sworn he saw Aurelio glance away, the corners of his lips twitching up.”

“To recite the Rosary in a hurry is not only wrong but absolutely pointless: it must be spoken slowly and thoughtfully. If there is no time for a whole Rosary one should do one section only; it is better to recite a part in the correct manner than the whole of it with insufficient care.”

“Enter Justine Putet, of whom it is now time to speak. Imagine a swarthy-looking, ill-tempered person, dried-up and of viperish disposition, with a bad complexion, an evil expression, a cruel tongue, defective internal economy, and (over all this) a layer of aggressive piety and loathsome suavity of speech. A paragon of virtue of a kind that filled you with dismay, for virtue in such a guise as this is detestable to behold, and in this instance it seemed to be inspired by a spirit of hatred and vengeance rather than by ordinary feelings of kindness. An energetic user of rosaries, a fervent petitioner at her prayers, but also an unbridled sower of calumny and clandestine panic. In a word, she was the scorpion of Clochemerle, but a scorpion disguised as a woman of genuine piety.”

“You don’t understand this when you’re younger but at some point, you cease doing things, cease creating new memories,” he thought aloud. “You are stuck in a rocking chair. And all you have are your memories. Those beautiful droplets of color you’ve managed to steal from the rainbow. And you go back to them over and over and over, like a Catholic praying the rosary. You dig in deep, sifting through decades, years, seasons, weeks, hours, and seconds of your life, trying to figure out what it all meant. I wanted to come back to you. I wanted to see you in color, to grasp my own little rainbow.”