I'm More Interested In Writing Than In

When I Look Back On My Childhood I Wonder How I Survived At All. It Was, Of Course, A Miserable Childhood: The Happy Childhood Is Hardly Worth Your While. Worse Than The Ordinary Miserable Childhood Is The Miserable Irish Childhood, And Worse Yet Is The Miserable Irish Catholic Childhood.

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.

There’s No Use Saying Anything In The Schoolyard Because There’s Always Someone With An Answer And There’s Nothing You Can Do But Punch Them In The Nose And If You Were To Punch Everyone Who Has An Answer You’d Be Punching Morning Noon And Night.

Stock Your Mind. It Is Your House Of Treasure And No One In The World Can Interfere With It.

You Never Know When You Might Come Home And Find Mam Sitting By The Fire Chatting With A Woman And A Child, Strangers. Always A Woman And Child. Mam Finds Them Wandering The Streets And If They Ask, Could You Spare A Few Pennies, Miss? Her Heart Breaks. She Never Has Money So She Invites Them Home For Tea And A Bit Of Fried Bread And If It's A Bad Night She'll Let Them Sleep By The Fire On A Pile Of Rags In The Corner. The Bread She Gives Them Always Means Less For Us And If We Complain She Says There Are Always People Worse Off And We Can Surely Spare A Little From What We Have.