An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile.
What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?
The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM!
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.
He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.