I'm A Drinker With A Writing Problem.

Ninety-seven Saint Days A Year Wouldn't Affect The Theater, But Two Yom Kippurs Would Ruin It.

It's Not That The Irish Are Cynical. It's Rather That They Have A Wonderful Lack Of Respect For Everything And Everybody.

I Am Married To Beatrice Salkeld, A Painter. We Have No Children, Except Me.

Message? What The Hell Do You Think I Am, A Bloody Postman?

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.