To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Words are all we have.
Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
The bastard! He doesn’t exist!
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
Birth was the death of him.
I say me, knowing all the while it’s not me.
We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.
What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Wondering Whom to Read Next?
- George Bernard Shaw Irish Playwright
- William Butler Yeats Irish Poet
- Norman Mailer American Novelist, Journalist
- Oscar Wilde Irish Poet, Playwright
- James Joyce Irish Novelist
- Marguerite Duras French Novelist, Playwright
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez Colombian Novelist, Short-Story Writer
- George William Russell Irish Author
- Sheridan Le Fanu Irish Novelist
- Brendan Behan Irish Poet