Words are all we have.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

Habit is a great deadener.

Birth was the death of him.

Do we mean love, when we say love?

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.

In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.

Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.

Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.

We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?