I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.

If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

Land of Heart's Desire Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.