Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

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.

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.

Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

They lived and laughed and loved and left.

The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.

White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!