When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood. (Chapter 1)

I think my father is like the Holy Trinity with three people in him, the one in the morning with the paper, the one at night with the stories and the prayers, and then the one who does the bad thing and comes home with the smell of whiskey and wants us to die for Ireland. (Chapter 8)

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a minute since my last confession. (Chapter 4)

My heart is banging away in my chest and I don’t know what to do because I know I’m raging inside like my mother by the fire... (Chapter 7)