I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?
The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends?