Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.

British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.

No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.