Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk

British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.

Let us leave theories there and return to here's hear.

His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile.