My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.

He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.

If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple.

It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.