Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
Mother is packing my new secondhand clothes. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscious of my race.
Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.
What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends?
What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.
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.
Jews are accused of ruining. Not a vestige of truth in it. (…) The priest spells poverty (…) It’s in the dogma. Because if they didn’t believe they’d go straight to heaven when they die they’d try to live better, at least so I think. (…) I want to see everyone, all creeds and classes having a comfortable tidysized income. I call that patriotism.” (526)
between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.
For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I’ll slip away before they’re up. They’ll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me.