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.

Thought is the thought of thought.

[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

They lived and laughed and loved and left.

There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.

Redheaded women buck like goats.