No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
Habit is a great deadener.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Do we mean love, when we say love?
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
Birth was the death of him.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.