Sins Cut Boldly Up Through Every Class

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.

Karen, Her Elbows Folded On The Deck-rail, Wanted To Share With Someone The Pleasure In Being Alone: This Is The Paradox Of Any Happy Solitude. She Had Never Landed At Cork, So This Hill And That Hill Beyond Were As Unexpected As Pictures At Which You Say "oh Look!" Nobody Was Beside Her To Share The Moment, Which Would Have Been Imperfect With Anyone Else There.

When You Love Someone All Your Saved Up Wishes Start Coming Out.

No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is Your Eye.

Sacrificers ... Are Not The Ones To Pity. The Ones To Pity Are Those That They Sacrifice. Oh, The Sacrificers, They Get It Both Ways. A Person Knows Themselves That They're Able To Do Without.