A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

In this cry of pain the inner consciousness of the people seems to lay itself bare for an instant, and to reveal the mood of beings who feel their isolation in the face of a universe that wars on them with winds and seas.

Words, particularly in a play, should have the texture of a crisp, autumn apple.

A translation is no translation unless it will give you the music of a poem along with the words of it.

In a good play every speech should be as fully flavored as a nut or apple.

There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.

A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned, for he will be going out on a day when he shouldn't.