Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.

Fate Is Not An Eagle, It Creeps Like A Rat.

The Novelist's--any Writer's--object Is To Whittle Down His Meaning To The Exactest And Finest Possible Point. What, Of Course, Isfatal Is When He Does Not Know What He Does Mean: He Has No Point To Sharpen.

Jealousy Is No More Than Feeling Alone Against Smiling Enemies.

But To Be Quite Oneself One Must First Waste A Little Time.