In 1889, I predict, the legislative stage of the Irish question will have arrived; and the union with England, which shall then have cursed Ireland for nine tenths of a century, will be repealed.
I feel myself part of something. Not only being part of a community but part of an actual moment and a movement of Irish writing and art. That sense of being part of the whole thing is the deepest joy.
I read a lot of nineteenth-century French poetry. And Irish poetry from the ninth century on.
Again and again, I find something eerie in many Irish occasions – the unrelenting whiteness, the emotional tribal attachments, the violent prejudices lurking beneath apparently pleasant social surfaces, the cosy smugness of belonging.
Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top.
There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
Irish novelist John Banville has a creepy, introverted imagination.
‘Ulysses’ is the greatest anti-racist text in the English language, and it challenges right from the beginning the vicious racism which lies near the foundations of the Irish Free State and of the Irish republic.
There is not a single injustice in Northern Ireland that is worth the loss of a single British soldier or a single Irish citizen either.