On my best days, I believe in Him with all my heart.” “And on your worst days?” she had asked that night. “Even if it’s only poetry, it’s poetry to live by, Sofia—poetry to die for,” he told her with quiet conviction. He slouched in his chair for a time, thinking. “Maybe poetry is the only way we can get near the truth of God.… And when the metaphors fail, we think it’s God who’s failed us!” he cried, grinning crookedly. “Now there’s an idea that buys some useful theological wiggle room!”
