Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing;

Temperamentally, The Writer Exists On Happenings, On Contacts, Conflicts, Action And Reaction, Speed, Pressure, Tension. Were He Acontemplative Purely, He Would Not Write.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

Also, Perhaps Children Are Sterner Than Grown-up People In Their Refusal To Suffer, In Their Refusal, Even, To Feel At All.

Sport And Death Are The Two Great Socializing Factors In Ireland.

History Is Not A Book, Arbitrarily Divided Into Chapters, Or A Drama Chopped Into Separate Acts; It Has Flowed Forward. Rome Is A Continuity, Called 'eternal.' What Has Accumulated In This Place Acts On Everyone, Day And Night, Like An Extra Climate.