Flann O'Brien
Flann O'Brien
Brian O'Nolanwas an Irish novelist, playwright and satirist, considered a major figure in twentieth century Irish literature. Born in Strabane, County Tyrone, he is regarded as a key figure in postmodern literature. His English language novels, such as At Swim-Two-Birds, and The Third Policeman, were written under the nom de plume Flann O'Brien. His many satirical columns in The Irish Times and an Irish language novel An Béal Bocht were written under the name Myles na gCopaleen...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth5 October 1911
CountryIreland
The continual cracking of your feet on the road makes a certain quantity of road come up into you. When a man dies they say he returns to clay but too much walking fills you up with clay far sooner (or buries bits of you along the road) and brings your death half-way to meet you. It is not easy to know what is the best way to move yourself from one place to another.
Some savage faculty for observation told him that most respectable and estimable people usually had a lot of books in their houses.
The only result my father got for his money was the certainty that his son had laid faultlessly the foundation of a system of heavy drinking and could be always relied upon to make a break of at least twenty-five even with a bad cue.
He went home one evening and drank three cups of tea with three lumps of sugar in each cup, cut his jugular with a razor three times and scrawled with a dying hand on a picture of his wife goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
The dusk was performing its customary intransitive operation of "gathering".
Why be a dumb dud? Do your friends shun you? Do people cross the street when they see you approaching? Do they run up the steps of strange houses, pretend they live there and force their way into the hall while you are passing by? If this is the sort of person you are, you must avail yourself today of this new service. Otherwise, you might as well be dead.
I saw that my witticism was unperceived and quietly replaced it in the treasury of my mind.
still loved but deprived of grace
It is clear enough that you are making some distinction in what you said, that there is some nicety of terminology in your words. I can't quite follow you.
I suppose we all have our recollections of our earlier holidays, all bristling with horror.
Your talk," I said, "is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one word of it do I understand.
When a man sleeps, he is steeped and lost in a limp toneless happiness: awake he is restless, tortured by his body and the illusion of existence. Why have men spent the centuries seeking to overcome the awakened body? Put it to sleep, that is a better way. Let it serve only to turn the sleeping soul over, to change the blood-stream and thus make possible a deeper and more refined sleep.
Strange enlightenments are vouchsafed to those who seek the higher places.
Moderation, we find, is an extremely difficult thing to get in this country.