Happy St. Patrick's Day /lit/. Post your favorite quotes from Irish authors and include a pic of what you're drinking.
"Ireland sober is Ireland stiff." - James Joyce
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Samuel Beckett
>>7821391
>My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump.
James Joyce
“It's impossible for a creative artist to be either a Puritan or a Fascist, because both are a negation of the creative urge. The only things a creative artist can be opposed to are ugliness and injustice.”
― Liam O'Flaherty
>>7821391
Goodbye, you little shit.
-my Dad when he left us.;_;
To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.
You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.
Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.
JIM
What other Irish authors do you recommend?
>I have come to conclusion that Muhammad was indeed a great man and a deliverer and benefactor of mankind
George Bernard Shaw
>>7821450
>Who is Ezra Pound
“Be advised my passport's green.
No glass of ours was ever raised
to toast the Queen.”
― Seamus Heaney
Women are made to be loved, not understood.
Oscar Wilde
Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people.
W.B.Yeats
“The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.”
-Chesterton (not Irish, but wrote a book supporting Ireland's independence)
“We learn from failure, not from success!”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula
Swift
“The witch approached it and pared its edges with a sword that she drew from her thigh. Then she sat down beside it on the earth and sang to it while it cooled. Not like the runes that enraged the flames was the song she sang to the sword: she whose curses had blasted the fire till it shrivelled big logs of oak crooned now a melody like a wind in summer blowing from wild wood gardens that no man tended, down valleys loved once by children, now lost to them but for dreams, a song of such memories as lurk and hide along the edges of oblivion, now flashing from beautiful years of glimpse of some golden moment, now passing swiftly out of remembrance again, to go back to the shades of oblivion, and leaving on the mind those faintest traces of little shining feet which when dimly perceived by us are called regrets. She sang of old Summer noons in the time of harebells: she sang on that high dark heath a song that seemed so full of mornings and evenings preserved with all their dews by her magical craft from days that had else been lost, that Alveric wondered of each small wandering wing, that her fire had lured from the dusk, if this were the ghost of some day lost to man, called up by the force of her song from times that were fairer.”
― Lord Dunsany, The King of Elfland's Daughter
There is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.
John Millington Synge
>>7821469
Is that skin cancer?
back when guinness was still good. beckett approved.
>>7821462
It always weirds me out to know people have fart fetishes. Like,i know fetishes are irrational, but come on-- sniffing the scent of digesting food is just wacky. You might as well jack off in pile of manure.
>>7821462
jesus christ
>I smell infidelity
Carl Jung
>>7821462
>I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey...
This was well written
>>7822027
the prettiest cancer there is
