Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.

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

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him.

Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well.