It's not that the Irish are cynical. It's rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody.

God forgive us-but most of us grew up to be the sort of men our mothers warned us against.

Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves.

There's no one, no one, loves you like yourself.

The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of matress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.

All publicity is good, except an obituary notice.

Other people's interruptions of your work are relatively insignificant compared with the countless times you interrupt yourself.