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.
Yeats, protected to some extent by the Nationalistic movement, wrote out of a somewhat protected world, and so his work does not touch life deeply.
Letting the facts speak for themselves is an immoral principle when we all know that facts and figures can be selected to prove anything.