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

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.

Habit is a great deadener.

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

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

Do we mean love, when we say love?

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

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

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

Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

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.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

I can't go on. I'll go on.

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

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

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

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

Words are all we have.

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.

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

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.

Birth was the death of him.

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

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

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.

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

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.

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.

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

Ever tried. Ever failed. No Matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty if ill employed.

The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.

We are all born crazy. Some of us remain that way.

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.

Dance first. Think later. Its the natural order.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile a stain upon the silence.

Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland Rich and thick.

Theres man all over for you blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.