Gael Quotes

The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.

As a member of the Protestant British squirearchy ruling Ireland, he was touchy about his Irish origins. When in later life an enthusiastic Gael commended him as a famous Irishman, he replied "A man can be born in a stable, and yet not be an animal.

Perhaps you confuse virtue and convention, gentlemen. Conventionality is not morality, and self-righteousness is not religion.

Authority is the source of knowledge, but the reason of mankind is the norm by which all authority is judged. Eóin, the Irish Gael AKA Johannes Scotus Eriugena (b.815 - d.877)

That is the sidhe bridge.” She chuckled. “The fairy bridge. The Gaels are very superstitious. They believe they must throw silver over the bridge every time they cross it, or it will bring bad luck!

I have always marvelled at the ability of the average Gael to find something to laugh about in the most unlikely situation.

There is nothing in this life so nice and so Gaelic as truly true Gaelic Gaels who speak in true Gaelic Gaelic about the truly Gaelic language.

It's bakin' day. If they had any care at all of folk, they'd know better that to come on bakin' day." "They are men," Charlotte replied. "They only care if the bread is baked or not.

I may sound a little blasphemous here, but I tell you... understanding God's will is like reading a first-year primer compared to guessing the minds of women.

The flowered trim on the hems [of the dress] seemed superfluous, even frivolous, but at the same time it comforted her, as though the idea that a seamstress had thought to adorn clothing so innocently implied that somewhere, innocence was safe.

It is a sign of wisdom to recognize those things we cannot change about ourselves and our fate

Magic is a power, much like madness but so much more like fire.

Did the ancient Gaels not wear undergarments?" Frank leered. "You've never heard that old song about what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilts?

She looked at him all serious, and Gael swore even her freckles looked like they weren’t messing around. 

I wonder, just for a second, how it will taste on Gael's tongue, the cinnamon and chile en polvo laced into our vanilla cake, the spice a little like what he adds to his family's tamales.

There was is Arthur Nicholls much to recommend him to Charlotte Bronte, not least of which was the disparity between surface and soul, and it might be argued that Mr. Nicholls was the hidden gem of the two. Behind a veneer of quiet, ladylike demeanor, Charlotte concealed an acerbic mind and ruthlessly harsh opions on the weaknesses of the human species. Arthur, on the other hand, was the blustery, bigoted sort who could barely open his mouth without offending someone. Yet when the gloves came off, he had a great and tender heart, and was capable of love that would bear all wrongs, endure all tempests - in short, the very stuff that Charlotte took great pains to fabricate in her stories and that she was convinced she would never find.

though actor Gael García Bernal, who starred as Che Guevara in the 2004 movie The Motorcycle Diaries, had already agreed to play Maziar Bahari in Rosewater, shortly before filming began he had asked for more money.

Second, I will venture to Café Treplev, which is a hidden, wooden, book-lined restaurant that looks more like someone's personal library I would like to one day have in my imaginary mansion on the cliff with Gael. Oh, you don't have an imaginary mansion on the cliff? Fine. You can come over to mine. But don't steal the soaps.

Aye, it would've been the right thing t' do, but we're all of us made of the same stuff, miss, sinners before God, an' none o' us do the right thing all the time.

Give yourself when you wish to, but know that when you give yourself willingly, you are still your own.

There is nothing more natural than love, even though the priests would tell you to be ashamed of it. And so, yes, I lay with your father because I wanted to…

If I may say, Rich, your wife is looking lovelier with each passing day.” “You may,” Rich’s muffled words fell against the large red apple in his mouth. He carried a plate of various fresh fruit and the bowl of spaghetti Jace had pointed out earlier. He set the plates down and took the apple out of his mouth while he munched on a piece. “She can’t hear it enough times with the discomfort, aches, pains, bloating and cramping she feels.” “Why don’t you also share the gas, cravings and the sudden violent tendencies I get, honey?” Joanna said flippantly as she reached for the spaghetti. “Ah!” Rich smacked her hand away and moved the bowl out of her reach. He pushed the fruit bowl forward in its place. “That’s healthier for our kids.” “They want messy pasta right now.” “Tell them they don’t always get what they want.” “Their mother wants messy pasta right now.” “Tell her she doesn’t always get what she wants.” Joanna leaned forward, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrow. “Once the children are born, papa won’t be getting what he wants late at night when he gives me that “I’m in heat” look. I’m sure of that.” Rich’s hand on the apple froze. Slowly he chewed, looking up at Jace and Gael whose gazes had been volleying back and forth on the couple as they spoke. Reluctantly, he pushed the spaghetti bowl forward. He reached for the fruit bowl but winced when Joanna smacked his hand away and pulled both bowls in front of her.

Staring into the half light, the queen struggles with wants and needs to which she can give no names. It is not the willow she desires, nor the rose. It is something else…something that eludes her.

I reached for a pair of my own, intrigued. “Why not? Did the ancient Gaels not wear undergarments?” Frank leered. “You’ve never heard that old song about what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilts?” “Presumably not gents’ knee-length step-ins,” I said dryly. “Perhaps I’ll go out in search of a local kilt-wearer whilst you’re cavorting with vicars and ask him.” “Well, do try not to get arrested, Claire. The dean of St. Giles College wouldn’t like it at all.” In

The rain whispered down, soft as the touch of cobwebs, shrouding the green of the land in swathes of clinging grey. Maude had grown accustomed to the damp climate, to the clouds that constantly swept in, heavy and moist, off the Irish Sea. She had become used to hearing the soft, guttural tongue of the native Gaels in place of French and the stretched vowels of the English; to feeling as if she was living on the edge of the world, where the seasons moved, but time stood still. And always it rained.

English civilisation... for us... is a misfit... the Irish... qualities are hidden, besmirched, by that what has been imposed upon us, just as the fine, splendid surface of Ireland is besmirched by our towns and villages – hideous medleys of contemptible dwellings and mean shops and squalid public houses. We are now free in name. The extent to which we become free in fact and secure our freedom will be the extent to which we become Gaels again... The biggest task will be the restoration of the language.

Lowlanders who left Scotland for Ireland between 1610 and 1690 were biologically compounded of many ancestral strains. While the Gaelic Highlanders of that time were (as they are probably still) overwhelmingly Celtic in ancestry, this was not true of the Lowlanders. Even if the theory of 'racial' inheritance of character were sound, the Lowlander had long since become a biological mixture, in which at least nine strains had met and mingled in different proportions. Three of the nine had been present in the Scotland of dim antiquity, before the Roman conquest: the aborigines of the Stone Ages, whoever they may have been; the Gaels, a Celtic people who overran the whole island of Britain from the continent around 500 B.C.; and the Britons, another Celtic folk of the same period, whose arrival pushed the Gaels northward into Scotland and westward into Wales. During the thousand years following the Roman occupation, four more elements were added to the Scottish mixture: the Roman itself—for, although Romans did not colonize the island, their soldiers can hardly have been celibate; the Teutonic Angles and Saxons, especially the former, who dominated the eastern Lowlands of Scotland for centuries; the Scots, a Celtic tribe which, by one of the ironies of history, invaded from Ireland the country that was eventually to bear their name (so that the Scotch-Irish were, in effect, returning to the home of some of their ancestors); and Norse adventurers and pirates, who raided and harassed the countryside and sometimes remained to settle. The two final and much smaller components of the mixture were Normans, who pushed north after they had dealt with England (many of them were actually invited by King David of Scotland to settle in his country), and Flemish traders, a small contingent who mostly remained in the towns of the eastern Lowlands. In addition to these, a tenth element, Englishmen—themselves quite as diverse in ancestry as the Scots, though with more of the Teutonic than the Celtic strains—constantly came across the Border to add to the mixture.

THE Oldest Ones of All were gluttons. Probably it was because they seldom had enough to eat. You can read even nowadays a poem written by one of them, which is known as the Vision of Mac Conglinne. In this Vision there is a description of a castle made out of different kinds of food. The English for part of the poem goes like this: A lake of new milk I beheld In the midst of a fair plain. I saw a well-appointed house Thatched with butter. Its two soft door-posts of custard, Its dais of curds and butter, Beds of glorious lard, Many shields of thin pressed cheese. Under the straps of those shields Were men of soft sweet smooth cheese, Men who knew not to wound a Gael, Spears of old butter had each of them. A huge cauldron full of meat (Methought I’d try to tackle it), Boiled, leafy kale, browny-white, A brimming vessel full of milk. A bacon house of two-score ribs, A wattling of tripe—support of clans— Of every food pleasant to man, Meseemed the whole was gathered there. Of chitterlings of pigs were made Its beautiful rafters, Splendid the beams and the pillars Of marvellous pork.

Dragă Christian, Te-am așteptat în vacanța de Paște. Ți-am pregătit patul lângă al meu. Deasupra, am agățat niște postere cu fotbaliști. Am făcut loc în dulap ca să-ți pui hainele și mingea. Eram gata să te primesc la mine. Nu vei veni. Sunt multe lucruri pe care nu am apucat să ți le spun. De exemplu, cred că nu ți-am povestit niciodată despre Laure. E logodnica mea. Ea nu știe încă. Am plănuit să o cer în căsătorie. Foarte curând. Când va fi din nou pace. Eu și Laure ne trimitem scrisori. Scrisori care ajung cu avionul. Berze de hârtie care călătoresc între Africa și Europa. Este prima oară când mă îndrăgostesc de o fată. E o senzație tare ciudată. Ca o febră în stomac. Nu îndrăznesc să le spun prietenilor, pentru că ar râde de mine. Mi-ar spune că sunt îndrăgostit de o fantomă. Pentru că nu am văzut-o niciodată pe fata asta. Dar nu e nevoie să mă întâlnesc cu ea ca să știu că o iubesc. Îmi sunt de-ajuns scrisorile noastre. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am încercat prea mult în timpul ăsta să rămân copil. Prietenii mă îngrijorează. Se îndepărtează de mine tot mai mult în fiecare zi. Se iau la harță pentru chestii de oameni mari, își inventează dușmani și motive de luptă. Tata avea dreptate când nu ne lăsa pe mine și pe Ana să vorbim despre politică. Tata pare obosit. Mi se pare absent. Distant. Și-a făcut o platoșă groasă de fier ca să nu-l atingă răutatea. Dar eu știu că, în inima lui, e la fel de gingaș ca pulpa unui fruct bine copt de guava. Mama nu s-a mai întors niciodată de la tine. Și-a lăsat sufletul în grădina ta. I s-a frânt inima. A înnebunit, ca lumea care te-a răpit. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am ascultat o mulțime de voci care mi-au spus atâtea lucruri… La radio au zis că echipa Nigeriei, cu care țineai tu, a câștigat Cupa Africii pe națiuni. Străbunica mea spunea că oamenii pe care îi iubim nu mor dacă ne gândim în continuare la ei. Tatăl meu spunea că în ziua în care nu va mai fi război între oameni, va ninge la tropice. Doamna Economopoulos spunea că mai adevărate decât realitatea sunt cuvintele. Profesoara mea de biologie spunea că pământul e rotund. Prietenii mei spuneau că trebuie să alegem de ce parte a baricadei suntem. Mama spunea că dormi, cu tricoul de fotbal al echipei tale preferate. Iar tu, Christian, nu vei mai spune nimic, niciodată. Gaby

It was good, she reflected, to be among the proud Gaels. There was no formality among men here, where a man's pride of race stood him with the most noble company and gave him the air of a gentleman no matter how low his rank or birth. Even his grooms called the MacHugh by the familiar "Alex"; he was Chief of Clan MacHugh, but no feudal lord, and his clan was his family to the last rude scullion lad. Elspeth thought it incredibly heart-warming that men might keep such faith with one another, assuming respect for themselves and giving respect in return; she had lived too long in England, where pride of name and self-respect were matters reserved for only a few.

I have been seduced and I have seduced. But this, dear friends, and gentle mouths...this was a Seduction.

She was paying him for his ears and his experience, not for his lessons and he was coming to the conclusion that she was paying him too much, that perhaps he should have been paying her, for he was more her student than she had ever been his.

could have just killed her straightaway. We know they have no issue with murder. Dead, she solves their problem. Alive, she’s still a pain in their asses. But they might have sweated her for information. If she knew too much about their plan, they could still cancel the whole thing. It could have been the Clan proper. They might be trying to stop the assassination attempt and would have a reason for kidnapping Rebecca, to find out all she knew about the assassination. But I don’t see them killing her.” “Hell,” Victor said, “the police chief himself might even have ordered her kidnapping as a personal matter just to bury her knowledge that he’s a Clan na Gael leader. If that were the case, why would he let her go?” There was no denying Victor’s logic, but the most immediate thing now was the threat to Maureen Brogan and her child. “We need to get to Maureen’s now. She’s in danger. When she’s safe, we can think about Rebecca. Can you arrange for someone to stay with Maureen if we put her in a hotel with the child?” “Of course.” Conor heard Dr. Camp’s voice from behind them in the hallway. “Mr. Dolan, there’s a Detective Flynn down at the information desk. He wants to see you. Should I have the nurse let him up?” So the case is already assigned to Flynn. The last thing Conor needed now was to deal with the murderous detective. “Do me a favor, Doc. Hold him there until I can get dressed and get out of here. Victor and I will find a side door.” *** On the cab ride to Maureen’s flat, Conor tried to get into Flynn’s head. The detective landed this case either because of its relationship to Kevin Dolan’s supposed suicide or because the police chief specifically wanted him on the investigation. In either case, his objective would be to go through the motions of an investigation while protecting himself, the chief of police, and his Clan associates. He would, of course, make certain the kidnapping was never solved. At the same time, he would use the investigation to figure out how much Rebecca and Conor knew about the Clan’s internal problems. Whichever Clan group

Baothan that was afterwards a saint of the Gael was of the kindred of Columcille, and it was Columcille sent him when he was a little lad to be taught by Saint Colman Ela.

Dear Andy, Without going too much into the details… I lost myself for a while, and I let down the people who love me so many times. I’m feeling stable again and it’s been a while since I slipped up so bad, but I don’t know how to apologize for the stuff I put my family through. Sorry feels like such a weak word, especially when you’ve said it as many times as I have. What can I say to them that’s deeper and more meaningful than another apology? Sincerely, SOOO Sorry

There’s a beautiful old practice in Hawaii called Hoʻoponopono. It’s hard to translate, but it means something like ‘to make good and tidy up.’ It has to do with restitution and forgiveness—putting things right again. The modern version goes something like this: I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.  You’ve already done the second hardest part, which is admitting that you were wrong. You’ve apologized. If you haven’t expressed your gratitude and love, now’s the time.  And the hardest part, Sorry? The part that comes after the apology? You show them every day that you meant what you said. You don’t mess up the same way again. When you inevitably do mess up again in a new way, as we all do, back to basics: I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.  Show them the same unfailing support that they’ve given you, and eventually it will even out.  Sincerely, Andy

A friend once told her that he had seen graffiti in a restaurant's men's room that read, "Gael Greene uses a thesaurus.

I crave more contact, more of this strange man whose tender look assures me I’m important to him.

Personally, I like a little magic and mystery in my life.

If nothing else, his reality is far more creative than mine.

The sound was good, the feelings were good, the music was good: the work of five women, five musicians, blending together into a heady, sensuous mix of noise and passion and-though the patrons were unaware and the rest of the band might only have guessed-magic.

Six months ago she herself had been unacquainted with leather and studs, and guitars had been far from her mind.

He had been there for her tears, had asked nothing of her, and in his own way he seemed to be trying to learn what he could about music and magic.

If she could bring nothing else to this club full of the jaded and the flirting, she would bring a sense of love, of honest, giving affection. Love for Judith. Love for Kevin. The love of one Gaedil for another.

Was she perhaps seeing in those five women an image of herself?

Gael’s mouth lifted in a slow grin. “You’re asking about archaic traditions while lying in my coffin?

In contrast to the biting energy of the music, it was a gentle spell she wove about the club.

She felt the warmth of his arm as it tightened on her waist.

Sensual and yearning both, the singer’s voice drifted out, borne up and echoed by masterful guitar playing; and something about the song spoke of a love more tender than Jessica ever hoped to find in a world of plush carpet and false smiles.

Strangers they had become, he realized, strangers who knew little of one another save for the shoes at the foot of the bed, the overcoats hanging in the closet, the names of the magazines left on the coffee table.

The compromises had been cast off and left behind, the promises and love rent by indifference.

Here was volume that the sea itself would have been hard pressed to match, and here was music that had never sounded from bronze strings and willow sound-boxes, music that screamed and rumbled, music that filled the club as strong mead might fill a wooden cup.

Fourteen centuries separated their births, but they were nonetheless alike.

With the cocky smile she had taken for her stage persona, she looked the audience in the eye as she chopped out rhythms, bounded up on Lisa’s drum rises, down to rejoin Monica at the microphone for a chorus, down again to the dance floor to play a lead break among the club’s patrons. Her spandex was soaked by the middle of the first set, her hair wilting in spite of its coating of spray, but still she moved with energy, grinning with a surety and an openness that would have startled her fellow students at the harpers’ school.

Kevin seemed a little more frayed around the edges than when they had first met, but his height and his long hair were much more a part of the rock-and-roll style than Bill’s own stocky roundness.

Bill felt her presence even though he could hear nothing of her words.

True, Corca Duibne was far away in distance and in time, but though she could not return to the green and fertile fields of Eriu, she could bring some of her home and her memories into this club, into the lives of the people for whom she played.

Her satisfaction with the band was still a warm glow in her belly, but Melinda’s response had tempered it. She could not say something was wrong, but all the same she could no longer abandon herself to the utter certainty that everything was right.

She still wandered who this man was, but in his words she knew he heard a little more in music than did most. Still, the suit…and his hands were not those of a musician.

Nice fantasy. Would it sell?

He took a table in a dark corner and tried to forget the suit, the dismissive look in the girl’s eyes.

The legendary account of the origin of the Gaels and their coming to Ireland is as follows: They came first out of that vast undefined tract, called Scythia — a region which probably included all of Southwest Europe and adjoining portions of Asia. They came to Ireland through Egypt, Crete, and Spain. They were called Gaedhal (Gael) because their remote ancestor, in the days of Moses, was Gaodhal Glas. When a child, Moses is said to have cured him of the bite of a serpent — and to have promised, then, that no serpent or other poisonous thing should infest the happy western Island that his far posterity would one day inhabit.

All three of these races, however, were different tribes of the great Celtic family, who, long ages before, had separated from the main stem, and in course of later centuries blended again into one tribe of Gaels — three derivatives of one stream, which, after winding their several ways across Europe from the East, in Ireland turbulently met, and after eddying, and surging tumultuously, finally blended in amity, and flowed onward in one great Gaelic stream.

Nuair a bhagras an nàmhaid, Air a' Ghàidheal a dh'éighear - Bidh gach morair is iarla Guidhe dian leibh gu éirigh, Bidh sibh measail aig diùcan 'S bheir an Crùn a chuid fhéin dhuibh; Ach nuair cheanglar an t-sith leibh Cha bhi cuimhn' air bhur feum dhaibh, Cha bhi cuimhn' air mar smàladh Thar sàl do thìr chéin sibh, Mar chaidh fearann a dhiùltadh 'S mar a chum iad na féidh bhuaibh, Mar a chu iad an t-iasg bhuaibh Agus ianlaith nan speuran. When the enemy threaten, It's the Gael who is called - Each earl and each lord Implores you to rise, Dukes show you respect And the Crown gives you its share; But when peace is secured by you They'll forget how you served them, They'll forget you were banished Far over the sea, And how land was refused And they forbade you the deer, And forbade you the fish And the birds of the air. - Ruairidh MacAoidh

He wanted to wait until the last moment before conversion under the misconception that more of his sins would be forgiven. Eusaebus turned out to be an Arianizing bishop so his baptism was still questionable as to its validity in the eyes of orthodoxy. Constantain died on his way back to Constantinople in the villa of Axyron without his heavy burden. “Ouranous dear friend I am afraid,” Constantain took hold of my hand. “Have you accepted Iesou as your Lord and Savior without guile or trickery?” “I have,” he said weakly. “Then go with God, and be at peace,” I commissioned; he smiled and breathed his last. Before his death Constantain issued and signed both Utar and my release papers, giving us the status of citizens and freemen along with rings that held the Emperor’s seal to prove it, in the center of my ring read; “servum qui liberavit Constantiam”(the slave that freed Constance). With fifteen long years in the service of Constintain, away from my beloved Mariah at an end, it was time to make the arduous journey back to Avl. With our release papers in hand Utar and I took the Roman highway to the Gael waterway, we fashioned a coite’ for crossing. I kept listing to the south and nearly had my head bashed in by an angry Raoirreanac.

If you’re working on long-running scientific problems where each job takes many seconds (or longer) to run, then you might want to review Gael Varoquaux’s joblib. This tool supports lightweight pipelining; it sits on top of multiprocessing and offers an easier parallel interface, result caching, and debugging features.

Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend. -Charlotte Brontë, Villette

This time, his words were an invocation to hope, not a casual dismissal.

I love a woman, Monica. If that means I am gay, then so be it.

I am a harper, not a centerfold.

Music can be a demanding Goddess who calls Her purest to Her altar and possessed him utterly.

What had she done, that Celtic girl whose blue eyes shone like the edge of a razor?

This could take us to some strange places.

He fingered notes-thinking of Frankie, thinking of Christa. Somehow-and the connections kept slipping away from him, but he knew they there-the lusty, pain-ridden bluesman and the pale, intense harper had paired themselves in his thoughts, more like than unlike in spite of their surface differences.

Somewhere, Chairiste is waiting for her, perhaps herself working to release her from the bondage of the Sidh. Siudb does not know. She can only practice.

She had intentionally dressed conservatively for this first meeting to see whether Lisa would judge her clothes or listen to the music.

Midsummer was only a little over nine months away, and rock bands were unstable, vaporous things that ordinarily came together and fragmented with terrible regularity. But Christa could not afford the ordinary. This band would have to stay together. It would have to work.

Willful, fire, passionate-she is everything that the Realm is not; and though he loves her, he knows that his love will never be returned except out of gratitude.

Christa saw the sticks begin to descend, and as the cymbals crashed, she blasted out the opening hook, trying to put something as fragile as hope into thick, stupid bar chords.

The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.

The breeze that floats across the realm is no more than a strengthless movement of the tepid air, incapable of stirring Siudb’s long hair as she sits besides the reflecting pool, practicing.

Her black eyes were intense, hot, and they reminded him of Christa.

Ama biliyor musun? Seni öldürmeyeceğim. Bu çok kolay olurdu. Sen, konuşamayacaksın, yürüyemeyeceksin, nefes alıp vermek yapabileceğin tek şey olacak ve izleyeceksin. İzleyecek ve bununla yaşamaya devam edeceksin.

Y cuando vi su sonrisa, lo supe. Esa era la sonrisa que quería ver siempre al despertar durante el resto de mi vida.” Mario Benedetti.

Dr. Gael Chételat, the coauthor of the study, echoing what I’ve been saying for many years. “Looking after your mental health is . . . not only important for people’s health and well-being in the short term, but it could also impact your eventual risk of dementia.

Porque al final, Gael, sólo quien es capaz de contemplar de frente una herida ajena puede convivir con la propia. Mi vida, escúchame, no debemos olvidar nunca las historias que cuentan nuestras heridas

Gael Evans me mira como si tuviéramos la eternidad entera para contemplarnos.

One thing you have to remember, Nikki. It’s not your job to make sure everyone is happy. You have to do what you think is right. The rest is out of your hands. They get to choose how they react to it.

It’s not your job to make sure everyone is happy. You have to do what you think is right. The rest is out of your hands. They get to choose how they react to it.

In the long run, Jack, a big part of conquering fear is relinquishing the illusion of control. We are mere mortals, like it or not. We cannot control everything. We cannot keep everyone safe, dearly as we might want to.

One might as soon court the sea or the Rockies as make overtures to Christa Cruitaire.

The old magic is returning, the powers of notes and intervals falling easily beneath her fingers.

Sin or sacrament, Kevin,” she said. “Which is it? Which do you want to be?

Her hair was the color of an angry sunset, and it fell to her waist in ripples of copper and red. Her steps-deliberate, prideful, measured-took her eastward along Evans Avenue through clouds of dust raised by the summertime street repair. People stared at the small, wirestrung harp she carried tucked under her arm. She did not appear to notice.

What kind of guitar would he make for this pretty harper with her sweet voice and stranger manners, who appeared so young but who seemed at times so old? It would have to glow with all the luster of her hair, and he knew he would have to give to it the feeling of ancient forests, of standing stones, and misty downs. Nothing else would be appropriate. Noth else would fit.

You helped me with with that lullaby. I think I can help you with rock and roll.

Your music is the music of death.

Her steps were light, youthful, as though she were, once again, the young woman who knew nothing of Sidh palaces or American cities, but only the green meadows and pastures of Eriu.

This guitar had cried, wailed, wept when Frankie had played; and in the dim corners of smoky bars from Harlem to New Orleans, bars ripe with the odors of whiskey and cheap cologne, people had cried, wailed, and wept along with it, bright eyes, running down ebon cheeks.

Frankie had always played the same songs, but they had nonetheless always been different, changing in a thousand different ways that Kevin could scarcely name.