Whenever I set before myself the task of writing, I am unable to proceed. It is as if all inspiration is withdrawn and the opacous dell of my mind, that dark and damp abyss where imagination resides and ideas are generated is razed.
Perhaps it would be pertinent to beg inspiration of the Muses, those ancient beings that inspired many a work from the Iliad to the Aenead. But then I would substantiate a peculiar I reminiscent of Bloch in Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. His archaic speech rendered him anomalous, eccentric and pitifully idiotic.
I could expatiate on Northern Ireland but I fear nothing positive would be said. The Romans, those heroic and fantastic people that civilized the known world — so our American history say — knew of Hibernia, yet decided not to cross over. Instead, they settled with Albion sans Alba. Perhaps they were under the impression that no-one lived in Ireland, after all Strabo declares on several occasions: