We Are All Born; Some Remain So.

Be Again, Be Again. (pause.) All That Old Misery. (pause.) Once Wasn't Enough For You.

It Is Right That He Too Should Have His Little Chronicle, His Memories, His Reason, And Be Able To Recognize The Good In The Bad, The Bad In The Worst, And So Grow Gently Old Down All The Unchanging Days, And Die One Day Like Any Other Day, Only Shorter.

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

There's Something Dripping In My Head. A Heart, A Heart In My Head.

We Have Time To Grow Old. The Air Is Full Of Our Cries. But Habit Is A Great Deadener.