Irish Was A Man Of

Our Fingernails Match Our Toenails, Match Our Lipstick Match Our Rouge...the Habit Of Applying Warpaint Outlasts The Battle.

I Will Tell You What Jeanne Was Like. She Was Like A Piano In A Country Where Everyone Has Had Their Hands Cut Off.

My Paternal Grandmother Would Not Light A Fire On The Sabbath And Piled All Sunday's Washing-up In A Bucket, To Be Dealt With On Monday Morning, Because The Sabbath Was A Day Of Rest--a Practice That Made My Paternal Grandfather, The Village Atheist, As Mad As Fire. Nevertheless, He Willed Five Quid To The Minister, Just To Be On The Safe Side.

Language Is Power, Life And The Instrument Of Culture, The Instrument Of Domination And Liberation.

How Far Does A Pretence Of Feeling, Maintained With Absolute Conviction, Become Authentic?