There is no doubt that sorrow brings one down in the world. The aristocratic privilege of silence belongs, you soon find out, to only the happy state- or, at least, to the state when pain keeps within bounds.

The importance to the writer of first writing must be out of all proportion of the actual value of what is written.

Makes of men date, like makes of car.

Art is one thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting.

Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.

Habit is not mere subjugation, it is a tender tie; when one remembers habit it seems to have been happiness.

Where would the Irish be without someone to be Irish at?