Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.

When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the "Agamemnon."

White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.