Until quite modern times—I think, until the time of the Romantics—nobody ever suggested that literature and the arts were an end in themselves.

Recently, I was amused to see that Philip Larkin—by any chalk a fairly decided critic—in making his selections for The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century Verse (1973) chose to rely rather heavily on the taste and judgement of his well-read friend Monica Jones, which confirms my now well-earned sense that compiling an anthology of poetry is no cakewalk.

"I would say," says Edward Short, who chose the poems in the new collection The Saint Mary's Book of Christian Verse, "beyond technical smartness and insight and a respect for mystery, a good Christian poem must have a certain probity, a certain accountability. And a certain element of surprise."

Who was Gerard Manley Hopkins and why should we read him?

"The Betrothed" (I Promessi Sposi) by Alessandro Manzoni, could be acclaimed as the greatest ever novel.

"You needn't be so stubborn, sir," says the officer. "We're not asking you to adore Decius. 

No matter how far from the light we think we are, we should hold fast to the certainty that God will never abandon us.

Jane Austen is a giantess among giants, towering above the greatest writers of her own sex and indeed of both sexes.

Whereas sense and sensibility can be separated, with disastrous consequences, pride and prejudice are always inseparable, the former always resulting in the latter. 

On St. George's Day 1616, Miguel de Cervantes breathed his last, on exactly the same day as the death of William Shakespeare.