Brendan Behan (1923 – 1964)
Irish poet, short story writer, novelist and playwright who wrote in both Irish and English.
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The sun was in mind to come out but having a look at the weather it was in lost heart and went back again.
Brendan lit a bonfire under the arse of Irish literature. He took it by the scruff of the neck and dragged it kicking and screaming into the 20th century.
An author's first duty is to let down his country.
I only drink on two occasions — When I am thirsty and when I'm not.
Critics are like eunuchs in a harem: they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves.
When I came back to Dublin, I was courtmartialled in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence.
If the English hoard words like misers, the Irish spend them like sailors; and Brendan Behan ... sends language out on a swaggering spree, ribald, flushed, and spoiling for a fight.
Brendan described himself as a drinker with a writing problem, but what he really was a painter with a writing problem. No matter in what country of the globe he resided, or how many luminaries he met, the would always be a painter in his soul. If he had remained one for his livelihood, he could still be alive today.
He was born an Englishman and remained one for years.
It's not that the Irish are cynical. It's rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody.
There's no bad publicity except an obituary.
Mother, they would praise my balls if I hung them high enough.
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