Listen carefully to yourself. Listen to what you dislike, and you will find most of the imagery is what you have received and registered from other people. We ingest labels from others.
Category Archive: Irish
A woman is a branchy tree and man a singing wind; and from her branches carelessly he takes what he can find.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
The end of art is peace.
This melancholy London – I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
The keynote of simple folk is bad manners, familiarity. They intrude on one’s private soul.
I always was kind of on the edge of the church when I was fully in it, cos I was always asking the questions… And I could never believe blindly.
But that citizen’s perception was also at one with the truth in recognizing that the very brutality of the means by which the IRA were pursuing change was destructive of the trust upon which new possibilities would have to be based.
Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.
I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.