The keynote of simple folk is bad manners, familiarity. They intrude on one’s private soul.
A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.
How strange a thing like that happens to a man. He dabbles in something and does not realise that it is his life.
Malice is only another name for mediocrity.
There is nothing as dead and as damned as an important thing. The things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things.
In its truest manifestation, where it gives judgments, poetry is super-luxury. It would be interesting to see what would happen to a High Court judge if he were forced to follow the true poetic formula, doing the job for love, being forced into pubs for relief.
Young writers should keep out of pubs and remember that the cliche way of the artistic life is a lie.
I want to reveal in a simple way the usual – and unusual – life of the city; the corporation workman, the busmen, policemen, the civil servants, the theatres, Moore Street and also, what occupies so large a place in Dublin’s life, the literary and artistic.
What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.
A man is original when he speaks the truth that has always been known to all good men.