I Don't Know What It

You Never Know When You Might Come Home And Find Mam Sitting By The Fire Chatting With A Woman And A Child, Strangers. Always A Woman And Child. Mam Finds Them Wandering The Streets And If They Ask, Could You Spare A Few Pennies, Miss? Her Heart Breaks. She Never Has Money So She Invites Them Home For Tea And A Bit Of Fried Bread And If It's A Bad Night She'll Let Them Sleep By The Fire On A Pile Of Rags In The Corner. The Bread She Gives Them Always Means Less For Us And If We Complain She Says There Are Always People Worse Off And We Can Surely Spare A Little From What We Have.

The English Wouldn't Give You The Steam Of Their Piss.

He Sits In An Old Armchair In The Corner Covered With Bits Of Blankets And A Bucket Behind The Chair That Stinks Enough To Make You Sick And When You Look At That Old Man In The Dark Corner You Want To Get A Hose With Hot Water And Strip Him And Wash Him Down And Give Him A Big Feed Of Rashers And Eggs And Mashed Potatoes With Loads Of Butter And Salt And Onions.i Want To Take The Man From The Boer War And The Pile Of Rags In The Bed And Put Them In A Big Sunny House In The Country With Birds Chirping Away Outside The Window And A Stream Gurgling.

When I Look Back On My Childhood I Wonder How I Survived At All. It Was, Of Course, A Miserable Childhood: The Happy Childhood Is Hardly Worth Your While. Worse Than The Ordinary Miserable Childhood Is The Miserable Irish Childhood, And Worse Yet Is The Miserable Irish Catholic Childhood.

First Of All There Is Always That Artistic Challenge Of Creating Something. Or The Particular Experience To Take Slum Life In That Period And Make Something Out Of It In The Form Of A Book. And Then I Felt Some Kind Of Responsibility To My Family.