She was an auxiliary nurse but training to be a true nurse because that was her calling, to serve mankind. She was a Martha. There were Marys and Marthas, but Marys got all the limelight because of being Christ's handmaiden, but Marthas were far more sincere.

shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.

Promiscuity is the death of love.

That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.

never forget this moment, the hum of the bee, the saffron threads of the flower, the drawn blinds, nature's assiduousness and human cruelty.

It's not the vote women need, we should be armed.