It’s Friday, and I haven’t had the time to even look at the blog, much less write something for it. But today is a rather auspicious day, in a rather sad way. Seventy years ago on this date, the author Charles Williams died. Many people will not have heard of him, and surely many, many more will not have read him. They are to be pitied, in the same way that children who have never had the sheer joy of running through a pristine forest, or of having taken a running plunge into the ocean are to be pitied. They know not what it is they miss.