To Every Man His Little Cross. Till

How Do You Manage It, She Said, At Your Age? I Told Her I'd Been Saving Up For Her All My Life.

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.

There Is At Least This To Be Said For Mind, That It Can Dispel Mind.

To Him Who Has Nothing It Is Forbidden Not To Relish Filth.