The only decent people I ever saw at the racecourse were horses.

There is only one thing that makes any one athlete better than another, his heart. We all put our underwear on feet first, so we are all human.

He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.

He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?

One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.

We are bound together by the sympathy of our antipathies.

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.