Happiness Is Hard To Recall. Its Just

People Everywhere Brag And Whimper About The Woes Of Their Early Years, But Nothing Can Compare With The Irish Version: The Poverty; The Shiftless Loquacious Father; The Pious Defeated Mother Moaning By The Fire; Pompous Priests; Bullying School Masters; The English And The Terrible Things They Did To Us For Eight Hundred Long Years. Above All -- We Were Wet.

Shakespeare Is Like Mashed Potatoes, You Can Never Get Enough Of Him.

Just Let Them Sit In The Goddam Sun. But The World Won't Let Them Because There's Nothing More Dangerous Than Letting Old Farts Sit In The Sun. They Might Be Thinking. Same Thing With Kids. Keep 'em Busy Or They Might Start Thinking.

I Just Have To Proceed As Usual. No Matter What Happens, Nothing Helps With The Writing Of The Next Book.

Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned, It's Been A Minute Since My Last Confession.