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A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

John Millington Synge

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John Millington Synge
Age: 37 †
Born: 1871
Born: April 16
Died: 1909
Died: March 24
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
J. M. Synge
Edmund John Millington Synge
Given
Mass
Passed
Exile
Sauntering
Nothing
Walking
Nearly
Wet
Desolation
Every
Walk
Round
Hiking
Trekking
Journey
Rounds
Surfing
Strolling
Walks
Anywhere
Island
Fog
Strange
Wave
Waves
Surf
Week
Rock
Islands
Sweeping
Fogs
Sense
Rocks
Wander
Strip
Tumult

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Drink a health to the wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, with the jobbing jockies parching peelers, and the juries fill their stomachs selling judgments of the English law.
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The drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything.
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What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?
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It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.
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At first I threw my weight upon my heels, as one does naturally in a boot, and was a good deal bruised, but after a few hours I learned the natural walk of man, and could follow my guide in any portion of the island.
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A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned, for he will be going out on a day when he shouldn't.
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The general knowledge of time on the island depends, curiously enough, on the direction of the wind.
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When I was writing The Shadow of the Glen I got more aid than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servent girls in the kitchen.
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A low line of shore was visible at first on the right between the movement of the waves and fog, but when we came further it was lost sight of, and nothing could be seen but the mist curling in the rigging, and a small circle of foam.
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They're cheering a young lad, the champion playboy of the Western World.
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Lord, confound this surly sister, blight her brow with blotch and blister, cramp her larynx, lung and liver, in her guts a galling give her.
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There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
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I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds, The gray and wintry sides of many glens, And did but half remember human words, In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.
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In a good play every speech should be as fully flavored as a nut or apple.
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