Former President George W. Bush was presented with the Book of Revelation hand-copied by prisoners in a Chinese labor camp. Twenty men wrote out the entire Bible while in prison and smuggled it out the day before their meeting was exposed to officials.



A friend copied an admonition from Trollope on how boring preachers can be, while still tolerated, and what caution young preachers should take from it.

No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling audiences to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, (sic) and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same respectful demeanour as though words of impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. . . . Yes, my too self-confident juvenile friend, I do believe in those mysteries, which are so common in your mouth; I do believe in the unadulterated word which you hold there in your hand; but you must pardon me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation.

Anne M. Doe Overstreet writes beautifully about working, “ankle-deep in glory and dust,” as a landscaper.

I can do this, I thought, recalling long summers weeding the massive vegetable gardens my parents had. It’ll provide solitude, exercise, and mental space to work on poetry. Mostly true, resoundingly true, and not so much true.