I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .