The Well of the Saints quotes

Sitting down beside her and beginning to shred rushes she gives him.

If I didn’t talk I’d be destroyed in a short while listening to the clack you do be making, for you’ve a queer cracked voice, the Lord have mercy on you, if it’s fine to look on you are itself.

Who wouldn’t have a cracked voice sitting out all the year in the rain falling?

A little plaintively.

I do be thinking in the long nights it’d be a grand thing if we could see ourselves for one hour, or a minute itself

, the way we’d know surely we were the finest man and the finest woman of the seven counties of the east bitterly and then the seeing rabble below might be destroying their souls telling bad lies, and we’d never heed a thing they’d say.

To Mary Doul. You’re not saying a word, Mary. What is it you think of himself, with the fat legs on him, and the little neck like a ram?

I’m thinking it’s a poor thing when the Lord God gives you sight and puts the like of that man in your way.

It’s on your two knees you should be thanking the Lord God you’re not looking on yourself, for if it was yourself you seen you’d be running round in a short while like the old screeching madwoman is running round in the glen.

Breaking out into a passionate cry. Your hair, and your big eyes, is it? …

I’m telling you there isn’t a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the world isn’t finer than the dirty twist on your head.

There isn’t two eyes in any starving sow isn’t finer than the eyes you were calling blue like the sea.

Raising her stick.

Maybe if I hit you a strong blow you’d be blind again, and having what you want.

The Saint is seen in the church door with his head bent in prayer.

Very miserably.

It’s a hard thing for a man to have his sight, and he living near to the like of you

he cuts a stick and throws it away, or wed with a wife cuts a stick;

I’m thinking by the mercy of God it’s few sees anything but them is blind for a space. With excitement. It’s a few sees the old woman rotting for the grave, and it’s few sees the like of yourself. He bends over her.

Though it’s shining you are, like a high lamp would drag in the ships out of the sea.

Shrinking away from him. Keep off from me, Martin Doul.

Stands a moment with his hand to his eyes.

And that’s the last thing I’m to set my sight on in the life of the world⁠—the villainy of a woman and the bloody strength of a man.

Oh, God, pity a poor, blind fellow, the way I am this day with no strength in me to do hurt to them at all. He begins groping about for a moment, then stops.

… It’ll be a grand thing that time to look on the two of them; and they twisting and roaring out, and twisting and roaring again, one day and the next day, and each day always and ever.

It’s not blind I’ll be that time, and it won’t be hell to me, I’m thinking, but the like of heaven itself; and it’s fine care I’ll be taking the Lord Almighty doesn’t know.

He turns to grope out. Curtain.

With real admiration.

You’re a cute thinking woman, Mary Doul, and it’s no lie.

Triumphantly. I am, surely, and I’m telling you a beautiful white-haired woman is a grand thing to see, for I’m told when Kitty Bawn was selling poteen below, the young men itself would never tire to be looking in her face.

Bursting with excitement. I’ve this to say, Mary Doul. I’ll be letting my beard grow in a short while, a beautiful, long, white, silken, streamy beard, you wouldn’t see the like of in the eastern world. …

Ah, a white beard’s a grand thing on an old man, a grand thing for making the quality stop and be stretching out their hands with good silver or gold, and a beard’s a thing you’ll never have, so you may be holding your tongue.

Laughing cheerfully. Well, we’re a great pair, surely, and it’s great times we’ll have yet, maybe, and great talking before we die.

Laughing cheerfully.

Well, we’re a great pair, surely, and it’s great times we’ll have yet, maybe, and great talking before we die.

Great times from this day, with the help of the Almighty God, for a priest itself would believe the lies of an old man would have a fine white beard growing on his chin.

It’s hard set I am to know what would be right.

And isn’t it a poor thing to be blind when you can’t run off itself, and you fearing to see?

Nearly in tears. It’s a poor thing, God help us, and what good’ll our gray hairs be itself, if we have our sight, the way we’ll see them falling each day, and turning dirty in the rain?

To the People. Is his mind gone that he’s no wish to be cured this day, or to be living or working, or looking on the wonders of the world?

It’s wonders enough I seen in a short space for the life of one man only.

Severely. I never heard tell of any person wouldn’t have great joy to be looking on the earth, and the image of the Lord thrown upon men.