… in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of Éire, regardless of its creative custodian never having...
I make my way back whistling. Gerry nods towards Mrs Brady who is standing beside the trolleys.Morning, Mrs Brady, I say cheerfully.I push her provisions out to the car.Things are something terrible, she says. You...
Who’re them?” says he to the curate.”Them are the fallen angels,” says the curate.They had a human form, no wings. God took the wings off of ’em after Lucifer rebelled – that way they couldn’t...
And there, on that road, that very minute, he started to play – the most lonesome music that them priests ever in their lives heard. It brought water out o’ their teeth, so it did.
Iar gclos báis Mháirei dtuairim cháich má fágbhadh m’ainnir faoi fhód,níor bhuadhaigh bás ar Mháire im mheabhair-se fós.
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