Novelist, playwright, essayist (1926-2017)
They crossed the street and O'Keefe bought an Irish Times and moved jauntily over the bridge, both filled with a torrent of words bled from O'Keefe's excitement and memories of Dublin. They looked a curious pair and a group of small boys called after them, Jews, Jews, and O'Keefe spun back with an accusing finger, Irish, Irish, and they stood barefoot in silence.
"That's what I like about Ireland, so open about hatreds."
Across the Butt Bridge. Covered with torn newspapers and hulking toothless old men watching out the last years. They're bored. I know you've been in apprenticeships and that there was a moment when you were briefly respected for an opinion. Be in the sight of God soon. He'll be shocked. But there's happiness up there, gentlemen. All white and gold. Acetylene lighted sky. And when you go, go third class. You damn bastards.
Reach over and press this buzzer for action.
A young man's raw face flicked around the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Dangerfield."
"A fine spring morning, a double and some Woodbines."
"Certainly, sir. Early today?"
"Little business to attend to."
"It's always business isn't it."
"O aye."
Some fine cliches there. Should be encouraged. Too many damn people trying to be different. Coining phrases when a good platitude would do and save anxiety.