We Have Really No Absent Friends.

Sacrificers ... Are Not The Ones To Pity. The Ones To Pity Are Those That They Sacrifice. Oh, The Sacrificers, They Get It Both Ways. A Person Knows Themselves That They're Able To Do Without.

Habit, Of Which Passion Must Be Wary, May All The Same Be The Sweetest Part Of Love.

[my Early Stories] Are The Work Of A Living Writer Whom I Know In A Sense, But Can Never Meet.

Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.