Men come of age at sixty, women at fifteen.
Is it not possible that the ultimate end is gaiety and music and a dance of joy?
Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it.
My three-thousand mile walk through Ireland convinced me of one thing - the possibility of organising a proper movement for the independence of my native land.
Can a spear divine the Eternal Will?
A woman is a branchy tree and man a singing wind; and from her branches carelessly he takes what he can find.