Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
Do you think I'm wonderful? she asked him one day as they leaned against the trunk of a petrified maple. No, he said. Why? Because so many girls are wonderful. I imagine hundreds of men have called their loves wonderful today, and it's only noon. You couldn't be something that hundreds of others are.
I do my best. About 90% of the very little Irish I speak is dedicated to soppy shite, but that's because there are so many ways to say lovely things which don't quite translate, or would sound plain cheesy. So I'm going to romance the whole of Cork city in a couple of weeks, of course.
We'll probably be too pissed up in rapparee country or something. I'm only there a few days, and have many bulletholes to show my mate on me Da's auld street. We were planning a day in Bantry so I could weep for the family martyrs of the 20s, but apart from that, I dunno. It'd be cool though, especially if you did tempt Don out.