Words are all we have.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.