Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic heart.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.