History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.