For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers. - James Joyce

I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...

What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.