“ Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. ”
His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
~ James Joyce
You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.
and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
