Where Would The Irish Be Without Someone

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.

Every Love Has A Poetic Relevance Of Its Own; Each Love Brings To Light Only What To It Is Relevant. Outside Lies The Junk-yard Of What Does Not Matter.

With No Banal Reassuring Grown-ups Present, With Grown-up Intervention Taken Away, There Is No Limit To The Terror Strange Children Feel Of Each Other, A Terror Life Obscures But Never Ceases To Justify. There Is No End To The Violations Committed By Children On Children, Quietly Talking Alone.

Chance Is Better Than Choice; It Is More Lordly. Chance Is God, Choice Is Man.

The Innocent Are So Few That Two Of Them Seldom Meet - When They Do Meet, Their Victims Lie Strewn All Round.