There I go being critical again. Does a man have to stand on one foot and juggle for me to consider him entertaining? What am I looking for? A knight?...No, knights are all polished and shiny. I think my taste runs to something with a bit of tarnish and maybe a few scratches. Someone who can make me laugh and cry and make me angry and make my knees tremble when he touches me.

Survivors lived with their mistakes.

Nothing worthwhile is ever without complications.

That woman doesn't have the sense God gave a retarded flea.

Fine, you do that, and you tell them that at the very first opportunity, I'm coming down there and killing all of them. Mass murder. And after they're all dead, I'm going to kick the bodies around, dance on top of them, and sing a happy song. No jury will convict me.

The tune was sad, as the best of Ireland was, melancholy and lovely as a lover's tears.

Don't you want me to kiss you goodbye, sweetie?" "Kiss a cow farm boy