When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.

My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.

(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid, and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises itself, so to speak. The aesthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of aesthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. 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.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

When the Irishman is found outside of Ireland in another environment, he very often becomes a respected man. The economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in his own country do not permit the development of individuality. No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.

A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.