Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.

Absence, the highest form of presence.

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived.

In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

The important thing is not what we write but how we write, and in my opinion the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.