Victor Vigny: It is like the old fairy tale. The boy saves the princess; they fall in love. He invents a flying machine – along with his dashing teacher, of course. They get married and name thier firstborn after the aforementioned dashing teacher.
Conor: I don’t recall that fairy tale from the nursery.
Victor Vigny: Trust me, It’s a classic.

I use the pay phone to call my friend Noel. The last time I was here he took me up a mountainside in Connemara with a seventy-eight-year-old poteen-maker who’d learned his craft as a teenager from his father. We spent the day watching him double-distill brown bog water in two oil drums over a turf fire into something that tasted like the finest malt. Noel acted as interpreter, as the old man spoke no English. Perhaps he’ll have another adventure in store for me this time.

The saints are persecuted, eyes are closed to the truth, darkness is the daily wear. The most savage beasts are those that are blind. No one thinks seriously of Hell. Oh the wickedness of people!” In the name of the King’ means, in these days, ” In the name of the Revolution!” No man knows where his duty lies, to be living or to be dead. To die in sanctity is forbidden, burial is a civic matter.

A person who is not true to oneself can easily be misguided by the self-seeker people through mass propaganda to believe a right one as a wrong guy and the bad ones as the bright individuals.

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