Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance.
Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.
riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
Rather upsets a man’s day, a funeral does.
Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
Phall if you but will, rise you must.[Modern text: Fall if you will, but rise you must.]
People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.
O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
No one would think he’d make such a beautiful corpse.
No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God in Ireland. Away with God!
