Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.

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.

He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.

[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

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

I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been lived among them but now they are becoming lothed to me. And I am lothing their little warm tricks. And lothing their mean cosy turns. And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all! And me letting on to meself always. And lilting on all the time.

That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia.