After A Full Belly All Is Poetry.

The Master Says It's A Glorious Thing To Die For The Faith And Dad Says It's A Glorious Thing To Die For Ireland And I Wonder If There's Anyone In The World Who Would Like Us To Live. My Brothers Are Dead And My Sister Is Dead And I Wonder If They Died For Ireland Or For The Faith. Dad Says They Were Too Young To Die For Anything. Mam Says It Was Disease And Starvation And Him Never Having A Job. Dad Says, Och, Angela, Puts On His Cap, And Goes For A Long Walk.

I Must Congratulate Myself, In Passing, For Never Having Lost The Ability To Examine My Conscience, Never Having Lost The Gift Of Finding Myself Wanting & Defective. Why Fear The Criticism Of Others When You, Yourself, Are First Out Of The Critical Gate? If Self-denigration Is The Race I Am The Winner, Even Before The Starting Gun. Collect The Bets.

I've Been Writing In Notebooks For 40 Years Or So.

We Never Really Had Any Kind Of A Christmas. This Is One Part Where My Memory Fails Me Completely.

I Had To Get Rid Of Any Idea Of Hell Or Any Idea Of The Afterlife. That's What Held Me, Kept Me Down. So Now I Just Have Nothing But Contempt For The Institution Of The Church.