Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

Irish Catholicism is very much founded on the stone of fear and of punishment.

Countries are either mothers or fathers, and engender the emotional bristle secretly reserved for either sire.

August is a wicked month.

Money talks, but tell me why all it says is just Goodbye.

Promiscuity is the death of love.

There was always a real reason for everything - why spoons tarnished, and jam furred, and people declined into God, or drink, or card games.