
Irish poet and playwright (1865–1939)
Missing: 4. Present digits repeat to show how many times they occur.
Nine completes the cycle, and the tradition treats it as the number that has already been round once: broad, forgiving, oriented toward something larger than a single life. It is read as the number of the reformer and the artist. Its tension is the mirror of 6 — where 6 over-gives to the people in front of it, 9 is described as giving to humanity in general while the people in front of it wait.
A complete line in the grid.
The 8-1-6 row complete. Read as follow-through — the traditional marker of someone whose plans reliably become events.
A complete line in the grid.
The 7-8-9 column complete. Read as drive that has both the wish and the machinery — the traditional marker of someone who converts intention into position.
The 1-5-9 diagonal complete. Read as determination that survives the middle of a project, when the initial energy has gone and the result is not yet visible.
The 3-5-7 diagonal complete. Read as emotional and intuitive range — the line practitioners associate with artists and with people who register what is unsaid.
A complete line in the grid.
A complete line in the grid.
Read as impatience with structure and maintenance. Associated with starting well and leaving the scaffolding to someone else.
Moolank 4 comes from the day of the month alone; Bhagyank 9 from the whole date. They differ, which is the ordinary case — the two numbers answer different questions.
The ascending lunar node — a shadow graha, not a physical body. Disruption, ambition, the unconventional. Read with more caution than any other.
Bhagyank uses the same arithmetic as the Western life path, so the two will always agree. That is not two traditions confirming each other — it is one calculation under two names.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all — the colleges I mean — like an opera.
I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal, — that is they have ceased to be self-centered, have given up their individuality.... The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses. Poets are the policemen of language; they are always arresting those old reprobates the words.
You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.
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