Irish Was A Man Of Parts Even

I Drew The Curtains To Conceal The Sight Of My Father's Farewell; My Spite Was Sharp As Broken Glass.

Reading A Book Is Like Re-writing It For Yourself.

A Book Is Simply The Container Of An Idea-like A Bottle; What Is Inside The Book Is What Matters.

It Is, Perhaps, A Better Thing To Be Valued Only As An Object Of Passion Than Never To Be Valued At All.

They Will Be Like Shadows, They Will Be Like Wraiths, Gray Members Of A Congregation Of Nightmare; Hark! His Long Wavering Howl . . . An Aria Of Fear Made Audible. The Wolfsong Is The Sound Of The Rending You Will Suffer, In Itself A Murdering.