When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.

No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.

What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?

Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence.

Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?

The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM!

Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory.