When he was thirty-six years old, still plain Father Tom and nowhere near being a bishop, he reminded himself that we on earth are all exiles, exiled from the Presence of Almighty God. But the kind of exile he felt, living inside his own body and dragging along while the priest within him strode proudly, that was an entirely different kind of exile — somebody inconsolable and stubborn who was not intelligent enough to understand the earthly sameness between his own and other countries and who therefore in bewilderment tormented himself about the difference. Or you could say that an exile was a person who knew of a country that made all other countries seem strange. In that sense, the exile inside the priest, or living with the priest, hanging onto him, might be a helpful being, enabling the priest to dream sometimes and find a little respite in the tranquillity of memory and of familiar places. The Bishop, thirty-six years old, kneeling in meditation before his altar, arranged a sentence in his mind: The strong resolute priest finds respite in the tranquil recollection of familiar places and in that respite gains the grace to be more humble and more watchful in his care of his flock … And then he ground his hands together in the impatience he had forbidden himself, the impatience that expressed a distress he feared because he understood it. What was he doing inventing and polishing and making phrases that said nothing at all? Anyone listening to him would imagine he thought Ireland to be a pretty little oasis of some kind or another, a kind of family paradise. He thought of his country, where terrible pride and terrible humility stand together, two noble creatures enslaved, enthralled, by what defines them, the bitter Irish appetite for humiliation. No, there was no complacency there, no complacency and no chance of any. He thought of his country and sighed in admiration, and grinned, although he knew he was being guilty of self-satisfaction. Then he took hold of his thoughts. He was barking up the wrong tree. What was bothering him and causing him all this weak misery was that he felt ill at ease, and clumsy, and confused, as though he moved through a maze that was formless until he made a mistake, and then in his mistake he touched something that made him draw back. Or, to put it another way, in his mistake he touched something strong enough to prevent him from moving forward, something implacable. How could he have the temerity to expect to be able to help save the souls of the people around him when he had left his own brother to perish in a wasteland of bitterness?