You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk.
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.
Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.
The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts.
He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.