Words, particularly in a play, should have the texture of a crisp, autumn apple.

What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

They're cheering a young lad, the champion playboy of the Western World.

A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned, for he will be going out on a day when he shouldn't.

A low line of shore was visible at first on the right between the movement of the waves and fog, but when we came further it was lost sight of, and nothing could be seen but the mist curling in the rigging, and a small circle of foam.

The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.