How strange a thing like that happens to a man. He dabbles in something and does not realise that it is his… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
In the country places of Ireland, writing is held in certain awe: a writer was a dangerous man from whom they instinctively… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Publicity's a cancer. It eats out a man - till there's nothing but a shell left. — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
The exciting quality about Joyce is that when you read him, you are not told of the large public issues that were… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
My chin is weak. I find it hard to make decisions. For years I had been caught between the two stools of security on… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
The keynote of simple folk is bad manners, familiarity. They intrude on one's private soul. — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Yeats, protected to some extent by the Nationalistic movement, wrote out of a somewhat protected world, and so his work does not touch life… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
I want to reveal in a simple way the usual - and unusual - life of the city; the corporation workman, the busmen, policemen,… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Natural life, lived naturally as it is lived in the countryside, has none of that progress which is the base of happiness. Men and… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
How strange a thing like that happens to a man. He dabbles in something and does not realise that it is his life. — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Actors are loved because they are unoriginal. Actors stick to their script. The unoriginal man is loved by the mediocrity because this kind of… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Publication there [in Nimbus] was to prove a turning point… The publication of his next volume of verse, Come Dance with Kitty Stobling, was… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
“It often occurs to me that we love most what makes us miserable. In my opinion, the damned are damned because they enjoy being… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Ancient Ireland sweeping In again with all its unbaptized beauty: The calm evening, The whitethorn blossoms, The smell from ditches that were not Christian. — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
Poetry is not Irish or any other nationality; and when writers such as Messrs. Clarke, Farren and the late F. R. Higgins pursue Irishness… — Patrick Kavanagh Copy Share Image
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