Sunday, January 18, 2009


Freedom, Jack B. Yeats (1871-1957)

The defenceless men and women with nothing but common beauty. The passionate and the passionless. The obdurate heart, and the little piping, brittle one. The bristling mind hiccuping with ideas, and the dull one, a flat plain under the black arc of an empty skull.
Jack B. Yeats, The Amaranthers (1936)

Another little gem, found quite by chance, that has set me musing again, somewhat wistfully. It has also reminded me of how little I know about W.B. Yeats's younger brother, a painter but also a writer of considerable talent.

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