I'm a drinker with a writing problem.

A pedestrian ought to be legally allowed to toss at least one hand grenade at a motorist every day.

To get enough to eat was regarded as an achievement. To get drunk was a victory.

Other people's interruptions of your work are relatively insignificant compared with the countless times you interrupt yourself.

The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of matress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.

Message? What the hell do you think I am, a bloody postman?

It's not that the Irish are cynical. It's rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody.