Wine and women do not go with song. Alcohol is the worst enemy of the imagination.

Patrick Kavanagh

There is nothing as dead and as damned as an important thing. The things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things.

Patrick Kavanagh

A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.

Patrick Kavanagh

The keynote of simple folk is bad manners, familiarity. They intrude on one's private soul.

Patrick Kavanagh

What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.

Patrick Kavanagh

Natural life, lived naturally as it is lived in the countryside, has none of that progress which is the base of happiness. Men and women in rural communities can be compared to a spring that rises out of a rock and spreads in irregular ever-widening circles. But the general principle is static.

Patrick Kavanagh

Malice is only another name for mediocrity.

Patrick Kavanagh

In the country places of Ireland, writing is held in certain awe: a writer was a dangerous man from whom they instinctively recoiled.

Patrick Kavanagh

In its truest manifestation, where it gives judgments, poetry is super-luxury. It would be interesting to see what would happen to a High Court judge if he were forced to follow the true poetic formula, doing the job for love, being forced into pubs for relief.

Patrick Kavanagh

Undoubtedly, there are a number of well-developed, mainly female, stars helping Miss Taylor to hold the film industry together: Sophia Loren, Anita Ekberg, etc. But such an insistence on cheesecake smells of bankruptcy.

Patrick Kavanagh

In the dear dead days beyond recall, when I was in my prime as a film critic, the industry was booming. Hollywood, to give them their due, always called it the industry, through quite a few imagined it as an art form and went through several hours regularly at tiresome films in the sacred cause of art.

Patrick Kavanagh

Letting the facts speak for themselves is an immoral principle when we all know that facts and figures can be selected to prove anything.

Patrick Kavanagh

Life in cities is not a spring but a river, or rather, a water main. It progresses like a novel, artificially.

Patrick Kavanagh

The position is: the Gaelic language is no longer the native language; it is dead, yet food is being brought to the graveyard.

Patrick Kavanagh

The exciting quality about Joyce is that when you read him, you are not told of the large public issues that were agitating the minds of politicians and journalists on those days. Joyce is interested in the mind of a man who has put five shillings on a horse.

Patrick Kavanagh

I want to reveal in a simple way the usual - and unusual - life of the city; the corporation workman, the busmen, policemen, the civil servants, the theatres, Moore Street and also, what occupies so large a place in Dublin's life, the literary and artistic.

Patrick Kavanagh

Young writers should keep out of pubs and remember that the cliche way of the artistic life is a lie.

Patrick Kavanagh

Poetry is not Irish or any other nationality; and when writers such as Messrs. Clarke, Farren and the late F. R. Higgins pursue Irishness as a poetic end, they are merely exploiting incidental local colour.

Patrick Kavanagh

Yeats, protected to some extent by the Nationalistic movement, wrote out of a somewhat protected world, and so his work does not touch life deeply.

Patrick Kavanagh

It might be said that the pose of absolute honesty is the most dishonest one of all.

Patrick Kavanagh

Patrick Kavanagh Quotes

Wine and women do not go with song. Alcohol is the worst enemy of the imagination.

There is nothing as dead and as damned as an important thing. The things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things.

A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.

The keynote of simple folk is bad manners, familiarity. They intrude on one's private soul.

What appears in newspapers is often new but seldom true.

Natural life, lived naturally as it is lived in the countryside, has none of that progress which is the base of happiness. Men and women in rural communities can be compared to a spring that rises out of a rock and spreads in irregular ever-widening circles. But the general principle is static.

Malice is only another name for mediocrity.

In the country places of Ireland, writing is held in certain awe: a writer was a dangerous man from whom they instinctively recoiled.

In its truest manifestation, where it gives judgments, poetry is super-luxury. It would be interesting to see what would happen to a High Court judge if he were forced to follow the true poetic formula, doing the job for love, being forced into pubs for relief.

Undoubtedly, there are a number of well-developed, mainly female, stars helping Miss Taylor to hold the film industry together: Sophia Loren, Anita Ekberg, etc. But such an insistence on cheesecake smells of bankruptcy.

Letting the facts speak for themselves is an immoral principle when we all know that facts and figures can be selected to prove anything.

Life in cities is not a spring but a river, or rather, a water main. It progresses like a novel, artificially.

The position is: the Gaelic language is no longer the native language; it is dead, yet food is being brought to the graveyard.

The exciting quality about Joyce is that when you read him, you are not told of the large public issues that were agitating the minds of politicians and journalists on those days. Joyce is interested in the mind of a man who has put five shillings on a horse.

I want to reveal in a simple way the usual - and unusual - life of the city; the corporation workman, the busmen, policemen, the civil servants, the theatres, Moore Street and also, what occupies so large a place in Dublin's life, the literary and artistic.

Young writers should keep out of pubs and remember that the cliche way of the artistic life is a lie.

Poetry is not Irish or any other nationality; and when writers such as Messrs. Clarke, Farren and the late F. R. Higgins pursue Irishness as a poetic end, they are merely exploiting incidental local colour.

Yeats, protected to some extent by the Nationalistic movement, wrote out of a somewhat protected world, and so his work does not touch life deeply.

It might be said that the pose of absolute honesty is the most dishonest one of all.