If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple.
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ----Introibo ad altare Dei.
The State is concentric, but the individual is eccentric.
When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.