if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.

When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.

Absence, the highest form of presence.

The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.

It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.

I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been lived among them but now they are becoming lothed to me. And I am lothing their little warm tricks. And lothing their mean cosy turns. And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all! And me letting on to meself always. And lilting on all the time.

I should tell you that honestly, on my honour of a Nearwicked, I always think in a wordworth's of that primed favourite continental poet, Daunty, Gouty and Shopkeeper, A.G., whom the generality admoyers in this that is and that this is to come.