I think that I know the hills where your life rose.
A lovely land, “O’Toole said, with a sigh. “God, you can love it! But you can’t live in it. It’s a frightening thing. My father, who lives in England, won’t put a foot in Ireland any more. And yet, you mention one word against Ireland and he goes stark raving mad…”
“Oh, Ireland,” O’Toole went on, “it’s the sow that ate its own farrow. Tell me one Irish artist that ever produced here, just one! God, Jack Yeats couldn’t sell a painting in this country, and all the talent…oh, daddy…You know what Ireland’s biggest export is? It’s men. Men…Shaw, Joyce, Synge, they couldn’t stay here. O’Casey couldn’t stay. Why? Because O’Casey preaches the Doctrine of Joy, daddy, that’s why…Oh, the Irish know despair, by God they do! They are Dostoyevskian about it. But Joy, dear love, in this land! …Oh, dear Father,” O’Toole went on, pounding his breast, “forgive me, Father, I have fucked Mrs. Rafferty…Ten Hail Marys, son, five Our Fathers…But Father, Father, I didn’t enjoy fucking Mrs. Rafferty…Good, son, good…
“Ireland,” O’Toole repeated, “you can love it…can’t live in it.”"