The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
Signatures of all things I am here to read.
And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial
It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.