Have read little and understood less.
Have read little and understood less.
The end he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about to be opened to him.
I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.
Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.
He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.
This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.
God made food; the devil the cooks.
The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived.
His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
Three things are needed for beauty, wholeness, harmony and radiance.
It was hard work-a hard life-but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.
Going to a dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc's auk's egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of Darkinbad the Brightdayler.
Thought is the thought of thought.
His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth.
Time is, Time Was, Time shall be know more
Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.
We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh
If we must have a Jesus let us have a legitimate Jesus.
To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl.
You can still die when the sun is shining.
School and home seem to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to wane.
Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete.
It could not be a wall but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything.
You could get a book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and ships. It made you feel so happy.
She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.
Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.
There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.
When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart, and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of, or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory..
There's no friends like the old friends.
In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.
Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories