"The fatalities which destroyed the men of another period originated in crafty diplomacy, soothing promises, and flattering expediency. Heaven guard us against a recurrence of similar evils! Unity and untiring exertion are our only means of establishing our legislative independence."

"Proust, who did not greatly admire Flaubert, except perhaps in his narrow sense as a stylist – or perhaps only did not care very much for his work – nevertheless owed him a great deal, without realizing how much. From Flaubert he obtained the art of expressing his characters indirectly, through a monologue interieur. This method of characterization is one of Flaubert's greatest contributions to the art of fiction and, as we have seen in Madame Bovary, it is very different from the direct method of characterization practised by Balzac and Stendhal."

"Unhurt people are not much good in the world."

"Irish humour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative than any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any other nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying of things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can put more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another race. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish humorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people are inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates, the native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined with precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much buoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart."

"Only those who are in the closest intimacy with sacred objects venture to treat them familiarly, and the Irish peasant often speaks in an offhand manner of that which is dearest to him. Few nations could have produced such a harvest of humour under such depressing and unfavourable influences as Ireland has experienced. And it may be asserted with truth that many countries with far more reason for uninterrupted good-humour, with much less cause for sadness, would be hard put to it to show an equally valuable contribution to the world's lighter literature."

"... In 1911, she established the monthly intellectual journal the Irish Review, with Padraic Colum, David Houston, , and . As an editor, Collum published her own articles, as well as work by , , and , until the Review ceased publication in 1914. Along with and other women nationalists, she also helped found , an auxiliary of the , and fought for women's suffrage."

"Both Joyce and Proust give the same impression, that they have penetrated into reaches of the inner life of men and presented them with far more actuality than has been done before."

"The last time I saw W. B. Yeats was in June 1938, in his house outside Dublin. He came into the room with his well-remembered, eager step, speaking in his well-remembered, eager voice. But he was changed. Old age that had left him so long untouched was making inroads on his physique. The old energy now came only in flashes. One of his eyes was covered with a black patch; it was blind, and he could use only one eye. ‘We are both changed,’ he said, examining me with his one eye. ‘You were once my ideal of a youthful nihilist.’ ... This was what he used to say to me in my student days when I was so delighted to be Yeats’s ideal of anything that I didn’t care what the word meant. Nihilism was the romantic form of revolt in Yeats’s early days; his friend, Oscar Wilde, had made a first play about Vera, the girl-nihilist. ... I think, vaguely, in his mind it represented a youthful fighting spirit that went with reading Russian novels, , and Nietzsche. To attribute to anyone a fighting spirit was Yeats’s most heartfelt compliment."

"The cherished traditions of a people, however extravagant they may appear, are in every instance valuable sources of information. No matter what amount of error may have been heaped upon them in their downward course through ages—no matter what incrustations may have formed around them—still like the statue in the block of marble the original form of truth is there, and requires only the discriminating hands of the historian to reveal."

"Youth’s bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled— All hath crumbled But grief alone!Whither, O whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruin’d and grey Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded— Ah, where are they?Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night: Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I bless’d the Giver With hush’d delight.Youth’s illusions One by one Have pass’d like clouds That the sun look’d on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone!As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp— As meteors are quench’d In a stagnant swamp— Thus Charlemagne’s camp Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond valley, And the Wonderful Lamp,And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun’s rambles, And Crusoe’s isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii’s daughters ’Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish in manhood’s Misty light; Squire and Knight, And damosel’s glances, Sunny romances, So pure and bright!These have vanish’d, And what remains? Life’s budding garlands Have turn’d to chains— Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O’er desert plains."

"The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!"