And in spite of everything, Ireland remains the brain of the Kingdom. The English, judiciously practical and ponderous, furnish the over-stuffed stomach of humanity with a perfect gadget--the water closet. The Irish, condemned to express themselves in a language not their own, have stamped on it the mark of their own genius and compete for glory with the civilized nations. This is then called English literature.

Shut your eyes and see.

No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.

Absence, the highest form of presence.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.

What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.