White Wine Is Like Electricity.

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

An Irishman Needs Three Things : Silence, Cunnning, And Exile.

This Race And This Country And This Life Produced Me, He Said. I Shall Express Myself As I Am.

When The Short Days Of Winter Came, Dusk Fell Before We Had Well Eaten Our Dinners. When We Met In The Street The Houses Had Grown Sombre. The Space Of Sky Above Us Was The Colour Of Ever-changing Violet And Towards It The Lamps Of The Street Lifted Their Feeble Lanterns. The Cold Air Stung Us And We Played Till Our Bodies Glowed. Our Shouts Echoed In The Silent Street.