Words are all we have.
We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones.
What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Birth was the death of him.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
Make sense who may. I switch off.
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
The bastard! He doesn’t exist!
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
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.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.
I say me, knowing all the while it’s not me.
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