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Прах Анджелы

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you write a letter?
– I can, Mrs. Finucane.
I’ll give you three pence
for every letter you write,
and three pence if it
brings in a payment.
Come on Thursday. Bring your own paper
and envelopes with you.
“O’Brien, Donnolley,
Meagher, Hannon,
old Mrs. Keneally,
Mulcahy, Ahern.”
We’ll see how you do
with that lot for a start.
Threaten them, boy.
Threaten the life out of them.
How does this sound?
“Dear Mrs. O’Brien:
In as much as you have not seen fit
to pay me what you owe me,
I may be forced
to resort to legal action.
There’s your son, Michael, parading
around the world in his new suit,
which I paid for,
while I myself have barely a crust
to keep body and soul together.”
“I am sure you don’t want to languish
in the dungeons of Limerick jail,
far from friends
and family.
I remain yours
in lit-- lit--”
– What are these words, boy?
– Litigious anticipation.
That’s a powerful letter.
This word, “in as much.”
That’s a holy terror of a word.
What does it mean?
It means,
“this is your last chance.”
She gives me money for stamps,
but I deliver the letters myself
and keep the money.
What class of a demon would torment
her own kind with a letter like that?
It’s truly awful.
What’s up with Mrs. Hannon?
That old bitch Finucane sent her
a threatening letter. Look.
People who write letters
like that should be boiled in oil...
and then have their fingernails
pulled out by blind people.
That’s great.
Thanks very much. Next, please.
I’m sorry for their troubles,
but there’s no other way for me to save
the money for the trip to America.
If the whole of Ireland
was dying of hunger,
I wouldn’t touch this money
in the post office.
Thanks, John.
Listen here to me, men.
Listen a second.
This is my nephew here, Frankie McCourt,
the son of Angela Sheehan,
the sister of my wife,
having his first pint.
Here’s to your health
and long life, Frankie.
May you live to enjoy the pint,
but not too much, eh?
Slow down, slow down.
Don’t drink it
all at once.
In Mountjoy jail
one Monday morning
High upon
the gallows tree
Kevin Barry
gave his young life
For the cause
of liberty
Just a lad
of 18 summers
And no--
What kind of state
is that to come home in?
Up, boys, up!
The Red Branch Knights!
The Fenian men!
The glorious I.R.A.!
I can’t believe you.
It’s your father you’ve become.
Tonight--
Tonight, I had
me first pint.
You should be
ashamed of yourself.
My first pint
with Uncle Pa.
Uncle Pa should know better.
No father around
to get me my first pint.
Your father was no good
to anyone, and neither are you.
You’re just like him,
you drunken feck!
I’d rather be like my father
than like your Laman Griffin!
Mind your tongue.
You’re drunk.
Mind your own tongue.
You and Laman Griffin!
You slut!
You’ve a mouth on you worse than
your drunken eejit father!
Better to be like
my drunken eejit father than like...
that fat, disgustin’ shite
Laman Griffin,
who you crept up to every night
there back at Rosbrien!
– Shut up!
– Laman Griffin. Laman Griffin.
Up in the loft
with Laman Griffin!
Squeak, squeak, squeak,
with fat Laman Griffin
rollin’ on top of you!
– Shut up! Shut up!
– You fuckin’ shut up, you slut!
My child. Tell me what troubles you.
– I’m 16 today, Father.
– Mm-hmm?
– I drank my first pint last night.
– Yeah.
I hit my mother.
God help us.
But He will forgive you.
Is there anything else?
I can’t tell you, Father.
Would you like
to go to confession?
I-I can’t, Father.
– I did terrible things.
– Well, you can tell St. Francis.
You can tell St. Francis.
We’ll sit here, and you can tell
St. Francis...
all the things
that trouble you.
I tell St. Francis
about Margaret, Oliver, Eugene.
He treads
the upper--
My father singing “Kevin Barry”
and bringing home no money.
My father sending
no money from England.
Theresa on the sofa.
My terrible sins
of interfering with myself,
wankin’ all over Limerick
and beyond.
Прах Анджелы Прах Анджелы

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