And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
In the particular is contained the universal.
(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.
You get a decent do at the Brazen Head
There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.