... With a slight miscalculated leap cleared to the iron picket fence. Put the fear of God into me, picket fences and balls don't mix.

When I die, I want to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Dublin. I wonder would they know it was me?

On Being Old. It's not nice but take comfort that you won't stay that way for ever.

Writing is turning one's worst moments into money.

I'm starved for love. Not ordinary love but real love. The love that's like music or something.

Dear Mr Skully, I have caught my neck in a mangle and will be indisposed for eternity. Yours in death S.D.

Expect the worst and that's what you'll get only it will be much worse.

I got disappointed in human nature as well and gave it up because I found it too much like my own.

The purpose of writing is to make your mother and father drop dead with shame.

Revenge is what I want. Nothing but pure unadulterated revenge. But my mother brought me up to be a lady.

Rid the mind of knowledge when looking for pleasure. Or start thinking and find a lot of pain.

reading is awsome

Take that chance :even though this is hard, you'll get it in a peace.Leave that chance :i know it's easy, but you will always walk in regret

If we avoid work Procrastination we'll achieve the target

I'm just a loud Irish guy.

I'm not a trained chef, so I end up making stuff up. It either turns out brilliant or an absolute disaster. I just go for it.

Death is an absolute mystery. We are all vulnerable to it, it's what makes life interesting and suspenseful.

I suppose if you could have only one thing, it would be that-energy. Without it, you haven't got a thing.

The substance of the winds is too thin for human eyes, their written language is too difficult for human minds, and their spoken language mostly too faint for the ears.

Most progress is most failure.

The very lack of opportunity the group faces creates a self-defeating cycle and puts pressure on members to limit their aspirations.