I keep it in a cupboard with such things as old prayer-books and a pair of small white china hands.
(Carmel Bird, ‘Rose of Jericho―remembering war―November 11, 2017’)
A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York Street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza’s plaintive muse.
White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tinycoffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.
— Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
A dwarf’s face mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s was. Dwarf’s body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box.
Identity cards are no real proof of identity, of course, but he had a scar, from his father, from a night with too much bathtub vodka. It was there, a black star on his forearm, dry and cold.
(Tessa Lunney, ‘Vitali’, Southerly 75.3)
They snapped swords over our heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned to death.
(Fyodor Dostoevsky, to his brother Mihail, quoted by Constance Garnett in the preface to her translation of The Brothers Karamazov)