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— David Lloyd George, in Lloyd George, David (1933). "XXIV: Disintegration of the Liberal Party". War Memoirs. Vol. 2 (1st ed.). London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson. p. 740.
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— Neil Kinnock, speech at the Welsh Labour Party conference, Llandudno, 15 May 1987.
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| Wales was in ancient times divided into three parts nearly equal, consideration having been paid, in this division, more to the value than to the just quantity or proportion of territory. |
— Roald Dahl, speaking during the mid 1950s
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— Bertrand Russell, Human Society in Ethics and Politics (1954)
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| The main difference between playing league and union is that now I get my hangovers on Monday instead of Sunday.
— Tom David, former Welsh rugby union international, after switching codes.
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| Wales is the land of my fathers. And my fathers can have it.
— Dylan Thomas, in Adam, December 1953
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| We were four dickheads from Wales. No other dickheads from Wales were making music at that point. And we were kind of pretentious beyond belief. |
| All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter? I spoke a tongue that was passed on To me in the place I happened to be, A place huddled between grey walls Of cloud for at least half the year. — R. S. Thomas, Tares (1961)
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— Rhodri Morgan, comment on architectural plans for the National Assembly for Wales building.
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— J. P. R. Williams, JPR Given The Breaks – My Life In Rugby (2007).
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— Aneurin Bevan, speech at Blackpool, 24 May 1945.
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Portal:Wales/Selected quote/13
| A fo ben, bid bont. [He who is chief, let him be a bridge.]
— Mabinogion, "Branwen, Daughter of Llŷr" (Jones & Jones, 1989, p. 34)
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— Sir Henry Morton Stanley, spoken on 10 November 1871 in Ujiji near Lake Tanganyika in present-day Tanzania.
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| For me real peace is lying on a river bank in summer with a sprig of grass in my mouth. I have friends who jet off to a luxury hotel. I think, 'How can you enjoy such ghastly luxury?'
— Griff Rhys Jones, quoted by Michael Odell in The Guardian, 5 November 2006.
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| It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
— Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood (1954)
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