"A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk..." — John Millington Synge

Every article on these islands has an almost personal character, which gives this simple life, where all art is unknown, something of the artistic beauty of medieval life.

In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.

They're cheering a young lad, the champion playboy of the Western World.

What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?