We fall in love with who we are not, in order to become who we wish to be.
On the first day of class I noticed her immediately, her bright brown eyes, set a little too far apart, her freshly scrubbed skin. Of all my students that semester, she was the most beautiful, and at that tender age when youth informs womanhood, imbuing it with a radiance that lasts only as long as innocence, and that is never very long. When she first looked up at me she smiled, and I knew then and there that she believed I was her savior, that I would be the one to raise her up, from the mundane to the divine. I knew at that very moment that I had become her confidant and brother, her confessor and father, her trusted guide through and around the thickets of a dark and disturbing world, a world overfull with the remains of half-eaten prey, and shot through with the watchful eyes of half-starved carnivores . . .
Writing for me is like walking blindfolded along a high-wire. I can see vague shapes through the mask, but I never know whether my next step will carry me forward, or send me plummeting to what I imagine to be a flat and unforgiving ground.
When she spoke, she would raise her arms up in expansive gesticulation, then let them fall upon her meaty thighs, silken and bare beneath her cotton skirt. The flesh of her legs would shimmer in vibration, and I had to struggle to look away.
There is Ireland, and there’s the Irish, and then there’s the dreams of their descendants, who know nothing of either, but have the money to pay for a taste of it.
It was not quite spring, but winter’s notion of spring.
One two three four five six seven all good children go to heaven
penny on the altar, tuppence on the sea, threepence on the railway and out goes she.