O, Dread And Dire Word. Eternity! What

You Can Still Die When The Sun Is Shining.

He Passes, Struck By The Stare Of Truculent Wellington But In The Convex Mirror Grin Unstruck The Bonham Eyes And Fatchuck Cheekchops Of Jollypoldy The Rixdix Doldy.

Whatever Else Is Unsure In This Stinking Dunghill Of A World A Mother's Love Is Not.

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

What Kind Of Liberation Would That Be To Forsake An Absurdity Which Is Logical And Coherent And To Embrace One Which Is Illogical And Incoherent?