I am near the end of the wine, but out there, the big wine is being poured â thin, slow, grey. Never more shall I taste the oncoming of this particular darkness. But I shall not be sorry to go. I am not seduced to this life by the dainty lusts, clothed in cold green and clean linen, of an English spring. If you plunge into that dark there, you will emerge at length into a raging sun and all the fabled islands of my East. And that is what I shall be doing tonight, off like a bird. Letâs dwell a space on the irony of a poetâs desperately winging out the last of his sweetness while the corrosives closed in.
Neither irony or sarcasm is argument.
What a cunning mixture of sentiment, pity, tenderness, irony surrounds adolescence, what knowing watchfulness! Young birds on their first flight are hardly so hovered around.
Irony is the hygiene of the mind.
The irony is that the person not taking risks feels the same amount of fear as the person who regularly takes risks.
Sentimental irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves.
Irony is the gaiety of reflection and the joy of wisdom.
Irony is jesting behind hidden gravity.
A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.
Irony is an insult conveyed in the form of a compliment.
Neither irony nor sarcasm is argument.
Neither irony or sarcasm is argument.
Irony is the hygiene of the mind.
Neither irony nor sarcasm is argument.
The supreme irony of life is that no one gets out of it alive.