whiffs

"I think religion has a chance of a look-in whenever the mind craves solace in music or poetry--in any form of art at all.  Personally, I think it is an art, the greatest one; an extension of the communion all the other arts attempt."

"I suppose you mean communion with God."

He gave such a snort of laughter that his madeira went the wrong way.

"What on earth did I say that was funny?" I asked, while he was mopping his eyes.

"It was the utter blankness of your tone.  God might have been a long, wet week--which He's certainly treating us to."  He glanced at the window.  The rain had started again, so heavily that the garden beyond the streaming panes was just a blur of green.  "How the intelligent young do fight shy of the mention of God!  It makes them feel both bored and superior."

I tried to explain: "Well, once you stop believing in an old gentleman with a beard...It's only the word God, you know--it makes such a conventional noise."

"It's merely shorthand for where we come from, where we're going, and what it's all about."

"And do religious people find out what it's all about?  Do they really get the answer to the riddle?"

"They get just a whiff of an answer sometimes. ...  If one ever has any luck, one will know with all one's senses--and none of them."

"But haven't you already?"

He sighed and said the whiffs were few and far between.  "But the memory of them everlasting," he added softly."

excerpts, I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith