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Four o'clock on this oblong Tuesday, Sebastian pushing through the door of a secret public house, moved cautiously to an empty space at the bar. Bart… - J. P. Donleavy
" "Four o'clock on this oblong Tuesday, Sebastian pushing through the door of a secret public house, moved cautiously to an empty space at the bar. Bartender suspiciously approaching him.
"I want a triple Irish, Gold Label. Quickly please."
"Sir, I'm afraid I can't serve you."
"You what?"
"Can't serve you, sir, rules of the house, you've had enough to drink."
"I've had enough to drink? What on earth do you mean?"
"I think, sir, you've had sufficient unto your needs now. I think you've had enough now."
"This is contemptible."
"Peacefully sir, now. Keep the peace. When you're sober, sir, now, be very glad to serve you. Little sleep. You'll be fine."
"Frightful outrage. Are you sure you're not drunk yourself?"
"Now sir, a place and time for everything."
"Well for Jesus sake."
Sebastian turned from the bar pushed out through the door and along the street. In dazed condition.
English
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About J. P. Donleavy
James Patrick Donleavy (23 April 1926 – 11 September 2017) was a U.S.-born Irish novelist and playwright.
Also Known As
Birth Name:
James Patrick Donleavy
Alternative Names:
J.P. Donleavy
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Additional quotes by J. P. Donleavy
Now kneel down in that booth while I give ye me special yule blessing. Get down in that booth. I know you're standing, you dirty ould cheat. Get down. For Jesus, what are you doing, ripping the phone out? Repeat after me, the Lord is my shepherd as I am one of his sheared sheep.
"The Lord is my shepherd as I am one of his sheared sheep."
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Mountains rising up purple in the evening sky. Clouds pressing darkly from the sea. Horses' hooves clattering on the stony rutted road. Brown bog lands. Heather and gorse. Tiny spots of yellow flowers. Spring lies somewhere. Hiding butterflies who will skip over the countryside. Rain streaks the carriage glass. Breezes blow up through the floor.
[...] Rocking swaying and bouncing, horses churning hooves as the carriage mounts these hills. Galloping around turns, crashing over ruts. By barren bog lands. Sheep running from the path of the rumbling vehicle.
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