Irish Was A Man Of Parts Even

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

This Lack Of Imagination Gives His Heroism To The Hero.

I Drew The Curtains To Conceal The Sight Of My Father's Farewell; My Spite Was Sharp As Broken Glass.

Nostalgia, The Vice Of The Aged.

Out Of The Frying Pan Into The Fire! What Is Marriage But Prostitution To One Man Instead Of Many? No Different!