To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.

Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.