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.

The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.

In the middle classes the gifted son of a family is always the poorest -- usually a writer or artist with no sense for speculation -- and in a family of peasants, where the average comfort is just over penury, the gifted son sinks also, and is soon a tramp on the roadside.

What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

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

The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything.