Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?

Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat, than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also.

There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.

Time's ruins build eternity's mansions.