I Hear The Ruin Of All Space,

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

The Studious Silence Of The Library ... Thought Is The Thought Of Thought. Tranquil Brightness.

When One Reads These Strange Pages Of One Long Gone One Feels That One Is At One With One Who Once.

I Want To Give A Picture Of Dublin So Complete That If The City Suddenly Disappeared From The Earth It Could Be Reconstructed Out Of My Book.

My Words In Her Mind: Cold Polished Stones Sinking Through A Quagmire.