O'casey Quotes

Laughter is wine for the soul - laughter soft, or loud and deep, tinged through with seriousness - the hilarious declaration made by man that life is worth living.

When it was dark, you always carried the sun in your hand for me.

All the world's a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.

It's I who know that well: when it was dark, you always carried the sun in your hand for me.

The whole world's a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.

Politics has slain its thousands, but religion has slain its ten thousands.

All the world's a stage, and most of us are desperately under-rehearsed.

That’s the Irish People all over - they treat a serious thing as a joke and a joke as a serious thing.

There is a deeper life than the life we see and hear with the open ear and the open eye and this is the life important and the life everlasting.

What time has been wasted during man's destiny in the struggle to decide what man's next world will be like! The keener the effort to find out, the less he knew about the present one he lived in. The one lovely world he knew, lived in, that gave him all he had, was, according to preacher and prelate, the one to be least in his thoughts. He was recommended, ordered, from the day of his birth to bid goodbye to it. Oh, we have had enough of the abuse of this fair earth! It is no sad truth that this should be our home. Were it but to give us simple shelter, simple clothing, simple food, adding the lily and the rose, the apple and the pear, it would be a fit home for mortal or immortal man.

He had an agent in New York, a tough red-headed woman named Phyllis Sandler who smoked Herbert Tareytons, drank Jim Beam from a paper cup, and thought the literary sun rose and set on Sean O’Casey.

Among the writers he was reading when he wrote these stories in the 1950s—and he was reading all the time, all kinds of books, dozens and dozens of them—were David Riesman, Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, John Cheever, James Baldwin, Randall Jarrell, Sigmund Freud, Paul Goodman, William Styron, C. Wright Mills, Martin Buber, George Orwell, Suzanne Langer, F. R. Leavis, David Daiches, Edmund Wilson, Alfred Kazin, Ralph Ellison, Erich Fromm, Joseph Conrad, Dylan Thomas, Sean O’Casey, e. e. cummings—who collectively represented a republic of discourse in which he aspired to

Every Hero Becomes a Bore at last." Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's my rule never to lose my temper till it would be detrimental to keep it.

the whole worl's in a state o' chassis

I don't believe he was ever dhrunk in his life - sure he's not like a Christian at all!

It is a source of endless wonder that these two islands lying side by side off the coast of Europe should have been the fount of so much anguish, each for the other. One spawned the mightiest empire in history, and its arrogant overlords were loathed by their oppressed neighbors across the Irish sea. The other -- small, poor, with virtually no valuable natural resources -- supported a people conspicuously lacking in political gifts and afflicted with an extraordinary incidence of alcoholism. "It is a very moist climate," Churchill once observed. Yet endowed with immense charm, romantic vision, and remarkable genius, it was the homeland of Swift, Shore, Yeats, Joyce, Millington Synge, O'Casey, O'Faolain, and Dublin's Abbey Theater.

A sober black shawl hides her body entirely Touched by the sun and the salt spray of the sea But down in the darkness a slim hand so lovely Carries a rich bunch of red roses for me Her petticoat simple and her feet are but bare And all that she has is but neat and scanty But stars in the deep of her eyes are exclaiming I carry a rich bunch of red roses for thee No arrogant gem sits enthroned on her forehead Or swings from a white ear for all men to see But jewelled desire in a bosom so pearly Carries a rich bunch of red roses for me

SEAMUS: It’s the civilians that suffer, when there’s an ambush they don’t know where to run. Shot in the back to save the British Empire. Shot in the breast to save the soul of Ireland. I believe in the freedom of Ireland and that England has no right to be here, but I draw the line when I hear the gunmen blowing about dying for the people when it’s the people that are dying for the gunmen. With all due respect to the gunmen, I don’t want them to die for me.

March 29: Marilyn writes to Lester Markel at the New York Times. She likes the Sunday piece on playwright Sean O’Casey. She provides her assessment of various contenders for the presidency, including Rockefeller, Humphrey, Nixon, Stevenson, William O. Douglas, and Kennedy. She considers Rockefeller “more liberal than many of the Democrats,” and declares that Stevenson “might have made it if he had been able to talk to people instead of professors.” Nixon has no soul. Douglas is ideal, but his divorce is an impediment. She is disappointed with the Times’s coverage of Castro and feels the United States should support and develop democracy. She includes some political slogans: “Nix on Nixon,” “Over the hump with Humphrey (?),” “Stymied with Symington,” “Back to Boston by Xmas—Kennedy.

I still agree with a speech Orson Welles makes toward the end of F For Fake, in which he reflects that all art, by Picasso or by Elmyr, by the anonymous masons of Chartres Cathedral or by Homer, will eventually get lost in chaos and perish in “the universal ash.” But Orson intones the eternal rebuttal in that marvelous baritone he used for his more oratorical moments: ‘What of it?’, cry the dead artists from their tombs, ‘Go on singing!’ Or, if that seems too obscure, let me quote Sean O’Casey: “Life contains tragedy, but life itself is not a tragedy.” I intend to enjoy every moment I still have left, and expend my energy in joyous creativity, even while part of me mourns those I have lost.

Oh, she was a crazy woman, privately. Absolutely nuts. She was so mad at Jim O'Casey. She was so mad, she went into the woods and hit a tree hard enough to make her hand bleed. She cried down by the creek until she gagged.

But in Jim O'Casey there had been a wariness, a quiet anger, and she had seen herself in him, had said to him once, We're both cut from the same piece of bad cloth. He had just watched her, eating his apple.

This is why Stephen tells the fatuous Englishman, Haines, that the Irish artist is the servant of two masters—the imperial British State and the Roman Catholic Church. In this sense also, the dead live: the Irish writer of Joyce's day made his obedience to the dead invaders and traitors who made Ireland a colony of Rome and of England, or else he was forced to choose Joyce's path of exile: as did Shaw and O'Casey and Beckett and a dozen lesser lights along with Joyce.

I’m talking about people who live in some of our most affluent cities,’ says O’Casey, ‘but they’re driven to live below the earth. People who—for whatever reason—aren’t welcome on the surface: homeless people, addicts, the HIV positive. There are subterranean communities all over the world, in catacombs, sewers and abandoned metros. The Tunnel People in Las Vegas, the Empire of the Dead in Paris, the Rat Tribe in Beijing. A lot of them are proper societies, with electricity and phone lines, even churches and restaurants sometimes. The Rat Tribe in Beijing are mostly migrant workers, some of them brought in to build for the Olympics. The only place they can afford to live is underground, in tunnels and old air-raid shelters.

One minute with him is all I ask; one minute alone with him, while you’re runnin’ for th’ priest an’ th’ doctor. - Sean O’Casey, The Plow and the Stars