Ah, bless you, Sister, may all your sons be bishops .
[His last words to a nun in a Roman Catholic hospital.]
Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves.
I am a drinker with writing problems.
Other people have a nationality. The Irish and Jews have a psychosis.
The English and Amercians dislike only some Irish-the same Irish that the Irish themselves
detest, Irish writers-the ones that think.
He was born an Englishman and remained one for years.
Pat: He was an Anglo-Irishman.
Meg: In the blessed name of God what's that?
Pat: A Protestant with a horse.
I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.
Ninety-seven saint days a year wouldn't affect the theater, but two Yom Kippurs would ruin it.
Shakespeare said pretty well everything and what he left out, James Joyce, with a judge from meself, put in.
The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of mattress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.
The most important things to do in the world are to get something to eat, something to drink and somebody to love you.
It's not that the Irish are cynical. It's rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody.
There is no such thing as bad publicity except your own obituary.
I have never seen a situation so dismal that a policeman couldn't make it worse.
To get enough to eat was regarded as an achievement. To get drunk was a victory.
When I came back to
If it was raining soup, people in this town would go out with forks.
He thought to get enough to eat was a success. To get drunk as well was a triumph.
He had never seen a state of affairs so miserable that a police officer couldn't make it poorer.
Sydney Morning Herald 29-11-58