The Irish always jest even though they jest with tears.

The kind need kindness most of all.

the way with Ireland is that no sooner do you get away from her than the golden mists begin to close about her, and she lies, an Island of the Blest, something enchanted in our dreams. When you come back you may think you are disillusioned, but you know well that the fairy mists will begin to gather about her once more.

Religion dies hard in the Irish.

It's a strange thing now how people will know they're dying themselves when no one else could suspect anything wrong at all with them.

Often our bad moments are self-propelled ... And the drama is almost exclusively within our heads and hearts.

The Irish always jest even though they jest with tears.